


Vita et Anima

by little_abyss



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Character Death, Character Study, Coming Out, Complicated Relationships, Declarations Of Love, Explicit Sexual Content, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, M/M, Original Character(s), Politics, Slow Burn, Tevinter Culture and Customs, Tevinter Imperium
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-22
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-05-25 22:54:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 31,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14987360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_abyss/pseuds/little_abyss
Summary: In the beginning, all that there was between them was half-dreamt hope. But as Dorian Pavus, Ambassador to the Inquisition, and Archon Radonis begin to get to know each other under the strangest of circumstances, they find that shared hope might just be worth fighting for.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tsurai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsurai/gifts).



> It's lucky for me that you're a patient soul, tsutsu -- I can't promise that this will come quickly, my dear, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless. Maker knows, you've waited an age for it.

It is a dance — it always is, always has been. All these negotiations are both amusing and follow the same dull pattern; conventions must be followed, social boundaries respected in order to reach a satisfactory conclusion. 

Archon Radonis inclines his head, continuing to stare into the cool grey eyes of the Ambassador, seated before him. Pavus smiles, and folds his hands in his lap. It’s a gesture which marks his impatience, Radonis sees it for what it is, and he notes it, though his expression does not change.

They sit in silence for a moment longer, until Radonis finally breaks it. “I do apologise, Ambassador,” he murmurs, feigning boredom, “But I must decline your request at this time. The coastal townships, as I am certain you understand, must remain defended. Our borders are under…”

“Constant threat, Archon — yes, I’m well aware,” Pavus says, his lip curling slightly. He huffs a short breath, then raises one eyebrow. “Well, I suppose it cannot be helped. If it is simply impossible, of course, I must write the Inquisitor and let her know. However… perhaps there is… a slightly more circuitous option which we might pursue--if you have the stomach for it.”

 

Radonis’ mouth drops open a little and his eyes narrow very slightly. Silently, he regards Pavus — his dark hair just beginning to thread with silver, the deep slashes in his sleeves, dark blue velvet giving way to a brighter blue silk beneath it. He is fashionably attired, a little less showy than Radonis expected, given the circulating rumours about him. Many of these rumours are rather interesting and more than a little concerning, but in spite of his political inclinations, Pavus’ association with the Lucerni faction has never given Radonis any trouble. In all truth, though Pavus is technically little more than the only son of a once-proud lineage, he cuts a rather fascinating figure; one that Radonis would be interested to know more about. Leaning forward slightly, he continues to gaze at Pavus with narrowed eyes, hoping the younger man will squirm… but it never happens. Pavus merely waits, a small smile playing under his moustache, eyes alight with curiosity.

Finally, Radonis nods. “If I have the stomach for it,” he repeats coldly. “Tell me then, of this  _ circuitous option. _ ”

 

Pavus chuckles lightly, the smile growing. Radonis watches him carefully, then looks down, into his lap, where Scintilla sleeps. Her bright white fur is glorious, smooth and softer than silk, and gently, he puts his long fingers into it. She shifts very slightly and he smiles, then looks back up at Pavus, who takes a deep breath and pauses as if he is considering.

Radonis arches an eyebrow, waiting. Pavus seems nervous all of a sudden, then says quietly, “You no doubt know the rumours surrounding my absence from Tevinter during the years preceding my appointment to my current role. It is no secret now that I prefer the company of men; however, there are many of us who must and do live secret lives. I believe, Archon… at least according to rumour… that you are one of these people.” Pavus pauses briefly and cocks his head, watching Radonis. When there is no response forthcoming, he continues. “I had heard on several occasions that this was true — the sons of several Altus families are known to have been your favoured companions at one time or another. The rumour seemed annoyingly persistent for someone in your position, and it made me wonder why you had not crushed it, or been more discreet. So, tell me, Archon… is it true?”

 

Radonis takes a slow breath in, then inclines his head. “Ambassador,” he murmurs, “I am above rumour-mongering. What do you seek, by bringing this information to me?”

Pavus snorts quietly and leans forward. “Hardly a denial, Archon.”

“You were expecting me to deny it?” Radonis counters, and shrugs. “It makes no matter to me what the hoards believe. They know  _ what _ I am — the most powerful mage in the Imperium. That is all that matters.”

“Oh, I beg to differ,” Pavus sighs and shakes his head. “Everybody is  _ very _ interested in who the Archon likes to spend time with. It allows them the fantasy that, if they could only get into this person’s good graces, then they might exert some influence. And I’m sure you’re aware… we’re all  _ very _ interested in influence.”

Radonis frowns slightly. Pavus smirks and continues, “Which brings me rather nicely to the option I would like to present to you. It is rather simple on the surface but I’m sure, if you agree to it, that it will prove rather hideously complex, also. Perhaps, if you consider it a game, you may find it more palatable…”

“I would think from that statement, you had been spending rather too much time in Orlais, Ambassador,” Radonis murmurs, his voice cold and final. “Make your proposal.”

Pavus waves a hand as if it will dispel Radonis’ irritation. “Certainly, Archon. My proposal is this: we will pretend that we are lovers, announce our intention to live together openly as such in some public forum, and thereby begin a chain of events which eventually increases the happiness and security of various peoples of the Imperium…”

“--while in the short term, decreasing our  _ own  _ safety and happiness, and potentially throwing the social fabric of the Imperium into disarray.” Radonis’ throat feels tight, his back aches with long sitting, his heart thumps hard in his chest, though on the surface, he is calm. “Very well. If, for some reason, I decide your  _ plan  _ \-- such as it is -- is not utter madness, what on earth could you offer as terms?”

“The aid of the Inquisition,” Pavus says simply. “The Inquisitor has her own reasons to wish our presence remain as solid as possible against a northern invasion.”

“One can only imagine,” Radonis mutters. “A Tal Vashoth would not be welcome should the Qun bring its forces south.”

“The Inquisitor is Vashoth, my dear Archon; I’m sure you appreciate the distinction,” Pavus replies. 

Radonis scoffs. “This is madness. My preferences aside, my personal feelings aside… this is no  _ game _ you are suggesting, Ambassador. Tevene politics is not a game by any stretch of the imagination — here we play for the highest of stakes, always. In Tevinter, it is victory or death, and our legends are written in the blood of those we bring down before us. To admit any weakness is certain death, Ambassador — have you been away so long that you forget?”

 

There is a moment of pure silence in the solar.  The sunlight shines brilliantly through the lozenged panes of glass, but the temperature in the air seems to drop dramatically.  Finally, Pavus sighs out a breath and mutters, “It seems the Archon is, once again, not disposed to accept my proposal. I tender my most sincere apologies.”

“Did I say anything about my disposition?” Radonis asks. In all this, he has not raised his voice above a low mutter; he loathes the idea of shouting, he always has. He takes a deep breath and sighs it out, drops his gaze to Scintilla again. The cat turns her face up, looking at him with her blue eyes, then closes them again, tucking her nose close to her paws. Radonis strokes his hand along her back and smiles slightly before his expression sobers once more. There’s something about this plan. It  _ is _ intriguing. However, it brings memories roiling to the surface of his mind which he would rather not consider… would rather not extrapolate those terrifying thoughts out onto a secret populace, consider that his private griefs have been experienced more widely. 

 

Eventually, Radonis lifts his gaze once more to find Pavus staring at him. His look is careful — much less assured than any expression which Radonis has previously seen upon those handsome features. As he watches, Pavus shifts on the dark red upholstery of the chair which he sits; his fingers are laced together, and he bows his head. 

“Your apologies are accepted, Ambassador,” he says softly. “However…”

The word hovers for a moment in the air, then quite suddenly, Pavus leans forward, looking up. “Archon, please believe me when I say that my only desire in this is to stop what almost happened to me, to make… make life more… more  _ reasonable _ … for people like…”

 

“Stop,” Radonis interrupts. “People like  _ us _ ? Ambassador...” Once more, he’s come dangerously close to raising his voice, and he  _ hates _ that, he  _ hates _ having to raise his voice, but Radonis can feel the muscles in his thighs straining, wanting, needing to stand, to do anything to outrun this sense of impending panic, this sense of terrified  _ want _ which Pavus’ words have given rise to. 

Finally, he sighs once more. “I require time, Ambassador. I will think on your proposal, perhaps, and we may discuss it at a later juncture. But for now, I am not inclined to accept it, no matter what you or the Inquisition may offer this office in return.”

From where he sits, Archon Radonis hears Pavus swallow.  “I see,” he murmurs, and nods once. There’s a moment of silence, back to the tense, awful feeling of it, then Pavus smiles bitterly.  “I see,” he repeats, “Please, forgive me once more, Archon. I understand… It’s a risk, of course. Perhaps my experiences in the south have made me forget my station.”

Radonis waves a hand imperiously. “Please. Let us speak no more of it. Perhaps we will meet again soon.”  

_ People like us _ … the phrase dances in his memory and he takes a breath, trying to clear his mind.  

“Ambassador, it has been… fascinating, of course.”  He begins to rise, carefully, and Scintilla leaps lightly from his lap, her jewelled collar jangling prettily in the quiet. Pavus’ expression is blank, pleasant but blank, and Radonis feels a brief twinge of sadness.  _ People like us _ , it echoes, Maker, how it echoes and stings in his chest, in his guts, but he smiles. Smiles at Pavus, who rises as well, and Radonis gestures in a sweeping motion toward the door.


	2. Chapter 2

The games had been a great success — Radonis still finds them amusing, even after all these years, though sitting for that long causes him nothing but trouble. The provocatores, in particular, had been most interesting. The sight of the two incaensors circling each other, the sand of the Proving Grounds kicked up as they move, staffs held across their bodies at the ready, their only protection a thin boiled leather breastplate and the greaves which glint in the late Wintersend sun. At the end of it, there was only the victor, standing over his dying foe, who writhed at his feet, blood gouting from the lacerations in his flesh. It marks an incredible end to a gladiatorial battle which had lasted more than an hour. The festival of Urthalis, that which the rest of Thedas calls Wintersend, has always seen such festivities, and Radonis was always pleased to preside over this part of it.

But now, the dancers swirl before him and it makes him dizzy.  This part, he enjoys much less. The Imperial palace opens its doors for the Altii at Wintersend, farewelling those who depart the city for their summer estates with an evening soiree. The Magisterium is in recess for the season, and the work of government is borne by the Publicanium. His back hurts, but Radonis smiles, hardly hearing the music anymore, barely focussing on the bleating of the Imperator before him. His grip shifts a little on his staff, and the man quails slightly, eyes darting to Radonis’ hand. “A-A-Archon,” he stutters, “If it’s at all possible, I know it’s terribly… terribly impolite to ask, but…”

“If you know such things, dear man, then perhaps it would be wiser to hold your tongue,” Radonis purrs, and glares in such a piercing manner than he steps back.  Radonis arches an eyebrow, inclines his head, and mutters with a frosty politeness barely audible over the swell of the music, “If you’ll excuse me?”

“Ce-certainly,” the Imperator chokes. Radonis sweeps away, long robes trailing, ignoring the way the dancers move around him.  He turns away from them abruptly, leaving the cenaculum and the dancers behind. A slave opens the large door before him, eyes downcast, bowing low -- Radonis walks by without looking at them. The stairs are dark. He wants Scintilla, the quiet of his chambers, something cool to soothe the throbbing of his back and the sick feeling in his stomach, but he will not have what he wants, not for many hours to come.

 

“Most High Archon. Na via lerno victoria.”

The voice comes from the shadows of the chamber, and Archon Radonis smiles, but does not turn. Instead, he approaches the interior window, standing as close as he can to it, observing the dancers below him. From this room he can observe them unseen. For a moment, Radonis’ gaze rests on the face of a young man, a smiling man, his dark eyes laughing, hood thrown back, elegant hands on the waist of the woman before him. His chest constricts, and he lifts his chin. “Sicarius,” he murmurs, the sibilance in the title drawn out, almost hissed. He disdains the use of assassins, but they are useful when necessary, and his hand cannot be seen in this matter.  “Is it done?”

“It is. The line is extinguished, our contract fulfilled.”

Radonis nods, then gestures with one hand. “You have my thanks. Please assure the Princeps that the agreed payment will be delivered at dawn. I’m sure I have no need to remind them that those who deliver it are to be dispatched?”

“Indeed, Archon. The Princeps of the Forum send their regards and extend their thanks for your business. It is our hope to be of service to you in the future.”

Radonis makes a non-committal noise and waves his hand to dispatch the assassin. He still does not turn his gaze away from the face of the young man. Valerian Claudius laughs again, silently from behind the glass, and Radonis’ eyes narrow. The woman he dances with is his wife, Electa -- rumour has it that she is pregnant with their first child, though she shows no signs of it. Radonis’ jaw clenches and he shrugs.

 

He had thought the world of Valarian, once. Valarian was the second son of Timierial Claudius, an Altus who could trace his genealogy clearly back to Thalsian of the Neromenian tribes. But his parentage was only part of the appeal of Valarian — though they were not equals in status or in skill, Valerian had a bright way about him.  He was quick-witted, laughed easily, and had the strange ability to make all of Radonis’ fears seem unfounded. After meeting almost five years ago at an event similar to this and being drawn to each other, there had been few moments when he did not seek Valarian’s company. 

The way his smile lit up his face… Radonis still misses it, misses that light directed at him. He shifts uncomfortably and turns his face away from watching Valerian through the glass.  Six months since Valerian was married; seven, then, since their last night together. And the tears, Maker, Radonis remembers the tears in those dark eyes as Valerian had told him no, he must do as his father wished. 

_ But… but I thought that you… Because, Valerian, if you will only stand by my side, I will give you the world. I… I love... _ His own words echo in his memory, pitiable-sounding, cut off when Valerian had turned his eyes away. They both knew how this would end, had known it before it had even began, only because it is the accepted way. But the way that Valerian had looked at him then turned away, the way he’d had to close his lips around those words, it still turns Radonis’ stomach. With which emotion -- rage or pain or relief -- he still could not say.

Is his laughter for Electa truly for her, or is it merely a part of the charade that Valarian must act? Radonis cannot tell; of course, he would like it to be an act, but…  _ You enjoyed Domitia’s company once, _ he reminds himself, and sighs.

Of course, he could have had the young man killed, could have had him and all his family stricken from the ranks of the Magisterium, had their wealth confiscated. But to what end? His name is old, and the elder Claudius has excellent connections with Orzammar as well as large holdings of land in the north from which much of Tevinter’s grain is produced. Who is Radonis to cause instability in the country for a fit of pique? He sneers, then catches his reflection in the glass and sighs. No. Valerian was beautiful and charming, and certainly, it may have been love. But even love was not worth sacrificing everything over. Was it?

 

The thought causes a heavy weight to settle in his stomach. It’s the uncertainty that he cannot bear. In the past, it was always so easy — to live in two ways, to lie. But he finds, as he grows older, that it is harder not to wish for that which he had always thought was so utterly out of reach. A soft touch; a gentle laugh; a man to hold his hand, to dance with, perhaps, a man who would smile wryly at his complaining, a man with curiosity and drive and intelligence. A man with a fierce pride; someone with a love of the Imperium to match his own. Someone to love -- someone to love him in return, in all the manifestations of that word. And to share whatever remains of his life with this someone… without shame, without fear…  _ Impossible _ , Radonis thinks, lifting his brows slightly and shaking his head at the thought. He gazes out across the ballroom from his hidden chamber and thinks,  _ Impossible dream for people like us. _

The phrase slides over the surface of his mind, then catches. Where has he heard it before? Ah -- of course. Pavus. The upstart Ambassador. In spite of his irritation, Radonis’ lip curls into a small smile. The Lucerni were an interesting group within the Magisterium; of course, there were the prerequisite rabble-rousers, but Tilani and Pavus had also managed to sway several of the old families as well. Mallor, Uiseann, Silex… yes, it was fascinating, what they had achieved in just a few years. Staring without seeing the dancers before him, the Archon considers. His smile widens slightly. Yes, that’s right… a terrifying game, with the prize so far off it may as well not exist. Radonis turns suddenly, away from the window, his robes once more flaring at his feet, and he strides across the room. Pavus. Perhaps it is time to shift the tempo of the dance again.

 

ooo

 

“The report, Dominus,” the slave murmurs, and Radonis nods almost imperceptibly. The man places the scrolls on a nearby table and retreats silently, never turning his back to the Archon, to find his place by the door. Radonis barely notices him. Instead, he raises a hand from Scintilla’s fur to catch up a scroll, unfastening the wax seal without raising his eyes from the text before him. Automatically, he moves as Scintilla shifts on his lap then leaps down. He hears her lapping at her cream a moment later; but it is distant, all distant, everything -- the feel of the parchment in his hands, the heat of the early Tevinter summer cooling rapidly in the air of his study, the fragrance of the peonies and jasmine in the distant garden, all gone, subsumed by his attention on the words before him. The book is ancient, the writing faded, but Radonis had been told that it appears to contain a veiled allusion to early human tribal magic and he is determined to discover the truth. 

There is the soft sound of whispering next to the vestibule, and a sound of fabric, moving softly against the stone. “Dominus,” the slave murmurs again from his left. 

He pauses, eyes narrowed, still focused on the words on the page before him. The world seems to wait, to hold its breath for him, then Radonis murmurs, “Show him in.”

 

The slave bows slightly, and Radonis hears him turn, once more hears the scuff of his bare feet and the whisper of fabric, then the heavy door to his study is opened. “Thank you,” a voice says, the tone courteous without being in the least differential, though the slave says nothing in reply. Radonis still does not raise his eyes from the text until he senses that the newcomer has moved to stand before him. He waits for half a beat, then blinks as if vaguely surprised and annoyed at the intrusion. “Ambassador,” he murmurs as a lazy smile curls Pavus’ lip, “You’re looking well.”

“My thanks, Archon. There was a time when I would have deemed that a rather backhanded compliment --  _ just well? I’m more used to being considered dashing _ , I might have blustered -- but these days I find I must take my compliments where I can.” Pavus’ smile grows, and he sweeps into a low, elegant bow. “It is my honour to be recalled into your presence, Archon. I was concerned that I had rather offended you during our last meeting. I do hope you will accept my further apology.”

Radonis’ eyebrow quirks upward, quite against his will. He regards Pavus, yet detects no fear in his expression at all; only, rather shockingly, a seeming honesty which is… a little disconcerting. Radonis is used to being lied to -- used to being feared, as well, and resented. It rather comes with the territory, and he prides himself at being a quick study for any emotion which he might later exploit. Pavus must be an exceptionally talented liar, as his expression seems entirely real.  _ Either that, _ he considers,  _ Or Pavus is telling the truth.  _ He feels his throat tighten with that thought, swallows, sniffs, before lifting his chin in a haughty attitude.

“You had nothing to make up for, Ambassador. It is, in fact, your proposal which I wished to discuss with you today, and the reason I requested your presence.”

At his words, Pavus’ expression shifts, almost imperceptibly, and Radonis feels a strange thrill run through his body. In that instant, it feels as if something sparks in the air between them -- but before Radonis can analyse it too closely, it is gone. He shifts a little in his seat, leaning forward and gesturing to indicate that Pavus should move to the softer seating in the far corner of the room.

 

When they are both settled, Radonis sits forward, folding his hands on his lap. As is customary, as is respectful and right, Pavus waits to be spoken to first. Radonis does not leave him waiting for long. “Though your plan is no plan at all… you were correct,” he says softly. “On several counts, actually — my proclivities lead me exclusively to the company of men, and in the war against the Qun, we need all the assistance we can get. May I be perfectly frank with you, Ambassador?”

“Certainly,” Pavus says, inclining his head. “I will keep your confidence, if you require me to, Archon.”

Radonis narrows his eyes. “And yet… you are compromised — your loyalty to our cause is damaged by your association with the Inquisition, and by the rumour that, during your time in the south, you took a Qunari lover.”

Pavus scoffs. “Please. Quite aside from the insult to my pride which your statement enacts upon me, during our previous appointment, you were the one who said you were above rumour mongering. If you wish to listen to rumour, that is one thing — but if you are asking me if I had a relationship with a Qunari… I’m right here, Archon. Ask.”

Radonis feels his back straighten, his shoulders branch out, magic curl and uncurl in the pit of his stomach, in his fingertips. “Fine,” he says quietly, “Did you?”

“I did,” Pavus says, his voice just as quiet as Radonis’, though fierce. “The Iron Bull and I were lovers for a time, until we ended that part of our association by mutual agreement. The Inquisitor herself took him up; they made a fine couple,” he says. “I have never felt that a name suited anyone less -- Bull was, is, a gentle person, who taught me much of love, and more of loyalty.”

Radonis sneers. “We have come from rumours to outright treason, then, Ambassador.”

For a moment, Pavus stares back at him, eyes narrowed, fists clenched on his thighs. He does not drop his gaze; he is so bold, bolder than Radonis has ever experienced before.  _ This man is fearless _ , he thinks, that strange thrill coursing through him again,  _ but not without regard for the things which matter.  _ Should he be angry? He does not feel it — instead, he feels nothing but a sort of pride in how Pavus has acquitted himself; a kind of pleasure that the he has not tried to placate him, has not denied anything about himself. Then Pavus mutters, “If it is treason to speak the truth, then I will happily commit it. And if your leadership is so weak that it must rely on fear alone, then frankly, I pity you.”

 

“You… pity me,” Radonis breathes, momentarily stunned. He allows his shock to show on his face as ire rises in his chest… but it quickly dissipates, to be replaced by a stronger sensation. A kinship, this is, something like awe at the way Pavus speaks.  _ If this man leads a revolution, people will follow him _ , Radonis thinks, admiration growing. He takes a deep breath, sighs it out, and smiles. Pavus’ jaw clenches. Radonis shakes his head a little, looks away, and laughs quietly.

“Venhedis,” Radonis smiles, looking once more at Pavus, who sits, stock-still, eyes still blazing. “My dear Ambassador, I have not been spoken to like that in years, and I must confess, I find it thrilling. Allow me, if you will, to attempt to explain myself.”

Stiffly, Pavus nods. Radonis returns the gesture, then refolds his hands, shifting a little on the chaise longue, making himself more comfortable. “I succeeded Archon Davan at the beginning of the southern blight, as you know. Every year since that year, I have seen successive waves of increasing fury break against Tevinter shores. We are beset by enemies, both without and within. For instance, the forces of the Qun have never been this quiet, and I feel in my gut that in a year or two, they will deal us a crushing blow on Seheron, and perhaps even take portions of the mainland.” Pavus inhales sharply, clearly shocked, and there is silence. 

Radonis raises his eyebrows. “You were courageous enough to give me your honesty, Ambassador. Now let me give you mine.”

Again, Pavus nods, and Radonis continues, “If my supposition is correct, then Minrathous will fall. Her walls are old, and though we have significant defences of the city, the Juggernauts have not been tested in battle since the fall of Kal Sharok. I fear too, the Altii have lost the appetite for this war. If that is the case, they will demand that we evacuate the city -- or they may simply abandon it. Oh, we may be able to block the Aritam forces coming off the peninsula, where the Valerian Fields end, but I do not doubt that many of the slaves will turn against us and join the enemy. Runaways do not go south. They go to the Qun and are a major source of intelligence against us. We are fighting a losing battle, at home and abroad, and… Dorian, if I might be so bold as to give you your name, I am tired. Tevinter is the homeland of every human in Thedas, it is the greatest nation on the continent… and yet…” Radonis pauses and shakes his head. “If we do not seek aid, we will perish; part of me wishes to enact this so-called plan of yours… but part of me is desperately concerned that we will disrupt the social structure as dictated to us in the  _ mos maiorum _ to such a degree that we will diminish what stability remains to us.”

 

Pavus swallows and nods. His expression is thoughtful, and he interlocks his fingers in his lap, looking at them. “Archon,” he says slowly, “That seems a rather disingenuous statement. Tevinter has  _ already _ lost what stability remained, prior to the fifth blight. All of that to which you have already alluded created the situation which gave rise to the advent of the Venatori — which nearly saw your own reign as Archon put aside. Our pride as a nation, our cohesion, it has become warped… so much so that I believe the war may already be over, bar the formalities.”

Pavus sighs unhappily and looks up into Radonis’ eyes. “Archon, I have spoken plainly, with no recourse as to my place, and I am prepared to weather the consequences of that. But I will continue to do so — it is my nature.” His voice is shaking, but not from fear, Radonis notes -- no, Pavus is impassioned, appealing to him in much the same way that Radonis has seen him win others to his cause in the Magisterium. “What have you to lose at this point? This also begs the question, if you have not considered challenging the  _ mos maiorum _ before now, then I would ask  _ why not _ ? Should children, in your view, be used as bartering chips in order to secure the purity of a line? Should people like you and I be told that who we wish to love must remain a secret, and so long as we sire an heir we are fit to bear our families’ names? Should we do all of this simply because someone decided this was the way we had always done it? Quite aside from the historical nonsense of that statement, it brings me to perhaps my most pertinent question — would you throw us all on the pyre, along with your own happiness, in order to continue this fantasy of a Tevinter which no longer exists? Please tell me. I wish to know the moral fabric of the leader that I am speaking to.”

 

Radonis takes a startled breath. The anger behind Pavus’ words is astonishing. He sighs and looks away. “I believe I rather deserve that question. However, if I may put it aside for the moment… Dorian, I have played this game of hide and seek, of rumour and counter-rumour, for a long time, and now I fear I do not know how to do anything else.” He swallows, his throat dry. “I have walled off my heart so completely, that to even pretend to let someone into it would be…” Radonis struggles for the right word, but cannot find it. “I asked you here, however, to hear what you had to say, and then to make my decision on your plan. And now, I believe my decision is made.”

He looks up. Pavus stares back at him, a slight frown on his face, and Radonis smiles. “It will be difficult, of course. My own fears notwithstanding, you should expect to be the target for much conjecture… jealousy, and perhaps even worse. Perhaps attempts will be made on your life.” Radonis watches Pavus’ face carefully, searching for any sign that he is beginning to regret his offer. But the grey eyes are clear, and his expression is calm. 

Slowly, Pavus takes a deep breath, and a smile blooms on his face. “Archon,” he begins, very quietly, then shakes his head slightly. “I scarcely want to confirm what I think it is that you’ve just told me. But… but, I believe that…”

 

“Dorian,” Radonis interrupts, smiling, “Please don’t be disingenuous. I will pretend that we have been lovers, and if it is agreeable to you, we will pretend that we are about to wed. I will make sure that the changes that the Lucerni seek become law, and are enforced throughout the Imperium. In return, you will supply me not only with the resources and the information which you promised but also with as much information as you can regarding the temperament of the current head of the false Chantry, Victoria. She has not supported Nevarran aggressions against us, in spite of her connection to their royalty...” Radonis pauses, then asks, “If we make open war with the Qun, will she wait it out and call an Exalted March against whichever side is victorious?”

Pavus snorts quietly and looks at Radonis, one eyebrow raised. “You can have exactly what I offered initially and nothing more… though I admit that adding the concept of conubium into the arrangement makes it rather more interesting. If I provide information on the southern Chantry and Victoria herself, how do you propose to reward me?”

Quiet for a time, Radonis considers. Then he straightens his spine, shifting slightly, and inclines his head. “Very well. For your initial offer, we have six months in public together. For the information on Victoria, we have a year.”

Dorian purses his lips and narrows his eyes. “No, Archon. Put into law the transfer of property and title between partners of the same gender, give them the ability to adopt or nominate an heir, and I will bring you Victoria’s ear--not literally, of course.”

“How droll,” Radonis says, and rolls his eyes. “I see we are at an impasse.” He smiles and shrugs, “See? I told you I was a cautious old man.” 

Radonis looks away, sighs, and clicks his fingers twice, softly. From underneath the desk, there is a tinkle of metal-on-metal, and in a few moments, Scintilla leaps into Radonis’ lap. As his gaze moves to the cat, Radonis’ eyes rest briefly on Dorian’s face, and he sees a small, gentle smile on his lips. Radonis smiles as well, looking now at Scintilla, and then he frowns slightly. “Perhaps, Ambassador, we might agree to the initial terms for a six month period. Let us leave it at that for now. There are details which we might discuss, but unfortunately, I will need to leave those for another time.”

 

“Of course.” Pavus’ voice is soft, but Radonis can tell that he is still smiling — it’s there, in the inflexion of his words, in his tone. He keeps his own face impassive. Finally, Pavus clears his throat and asks, “When do you come to the Senate next, Archon?”

“I plan to be there after the break for the summer,” Radonis says, his fingers buried in Scintilla’s thick fur. “Andoralis. That is the first day that the Magisterium sits again, is it not?”

“It is,” Pavus says. His voice is diffident, still soft, and Radonis looks up. Pavus smiles at him; a lopsided smile, almost shy, and he swallows, then nods. “Well,” Pavus says, “I will take up no more of your time, Archon. Thank you for your consideration, and of course, for your agreement. Please believe me when I say that I do not take the risk lightly.”

 

“I should hope not, my dear Ambassador,” Radonis says, and chuckles before he drops his eyes again, “I have a strange feeling that my life would be rather quieter, and much less interesting, if you were to succumb to the assassin’s blade.”

“Indeed,” Pavus laughs. “Vitae benefaria, Archon.”

“Et ad te, Legatum mi. Rest assured, you will hear from me soon,” Radonis replies, looking up at Pavus as he rises, responding to the formal goodbye. Tevene seems so natural to him, so perfect, that it is with some surprise that he notes Pavus’ expression: the pleased smile, the rise of his chest, the way his shoulders straighten. But in a moment, Pavus is bowing low, all courtly manners once more, and the slave comes to usher him out of the Archon’s presence. 

Radonis turns slightly, watching Pavus leave until he remembers himself and drops his eyes to Scintilla’s fur again. There is the sound of the door opening and closing; and again, he is alone. He lowers his chin to his chest, closing his eyes, feeling the slow, frightening rise of anticipation in his stomach, the smell of the peonies from the garden. This is complex, the idea that they might change the landscape of Tevinter society through their actions. Perhaps it is the complexity--the potential for failure--which he enjoys so much.  _ Or perhaps, _ he thinks,  _ you’re growing fond of that look on Pavus’ face.  _

 

Radonis swallows and opens his eyes.  _ A dance is just a distraction _ , he tells himself, stroking Scintilla’s fur gently once more,  _ and that is all this is. Enjoy it while the music lasts -- take from it what you can. But remember that the dancing does not last forever. _ And with that thought, he scoops Scintilla into his arms and rises, returning to his desk to resume his work once more.


	3. Chapter 3

Radonis walks through the marble hall of the small villa, his fingers interlaced before him. This high on the hill, all Minrathous is red-orange tiled roofs and white walls. The curvature of the hill obscures the chitinous browns of the shacks of the poor, creating the illusion that they simply do not exist. If he turns his head slightly, he can see the view, see the ocean sparkling under the glare of the sun. Summer is now the high season and the heat of it is incredible; however, the open architecture and excellent placement of the villa affords it the small mercy of the fresh sea-breeze from the coast, arriving untainted by the stink of the slums closer to the waterfront. 

Dorian walks beside him, their paces even, strides matched. There are only two others in attendance and they are both of the Archon’s entourage. As if sensing this train of thought, Dorian chuckles. “You will think me quite barbarian,” he murmurs, “But I no longer keep slaves. My parents thought it appallingly southern of me, that on my taking up of these apartments, I freed those who wished it and offered paid employment to those who did not.  _ Paid employment!”  _ He laughs again, “I can still hear my mother’s cry, those words echoing… she claimed I would have half the praetorii up here, begging for positions, but it hasn’t happened yet. My mother is no oracle, clearly.”

Radonis smiles and turns to glance at Dorian, “Perhaps it is yet to come.”

“Ah yes. Beware the rise of the harvest moon, as Eleni Zinovia foretold to Valarius.” Radonis smiles, though he cannot help his heart quail a little at the name, so close to his cherished Valarian. If Dorian notices, he says nothing.

 

After the long entrance hall, Dorian ushers Radonis into a receiving room. It is rather simply furnished, though it looks as if every piece of furniture and the few ornaments were selected with great thought. The rug on the floor is clearly Orlesian, with its great whorls and loops of brilliantly coloured florals, nicely offset by the fine cream-coloured faustian velvet of the upholstered chairs. There’s an air of strangely monkish severity, in spite of the gaudy carpet, and Radonis cannot help but frown a little in confusion. 

“Thank you,” he overhears Dorian say to a servant, and turns to look at him. He’s standing at the far wall, watching with an amused interest as the man places a laden tray down on a nearby sideboard. “That’s fine, Julius. I can take it from here.”

“Certainly, ser,” the man — Julius — murmurs, and looks up from his work to smile slightly at Dorian. “Will there be anything else?”

“Not at this time, though I’ll ring if we need you,” Dorian says. Radonis watches this exchange, unable to help his narrowed eyes and the twist of his mouth. It’s so…  _ different _ . So… respectful. He takes a deep breath as Julius leaves the room and Dorian turns to face him, a smile on his face. However, the smile quickly fades as he observes Radonis’ expression. For a moment, he simply watches, his lips pressing into a line briefly, before he asks abruptly, “That looks as if you have an opinion, Archon.”

 

Radonis snorts a laugh quietly. Dorian’s eyebrow rises when Radonis shrugs and gestures to the tray. “I may have an opinion, but how you run your household is, of course, your own affair. It matters not a whit to me… unless the rumours really are true, and the Lucernii are about to have all right-thinking magisters murdered in their beds so that the slaves might all go free.”

“Well, since you are not a magister any more, you wouldn’t have anything to worry about.” Dorian smirks. “And in any case, fewer magisters is rather less trouble for you, I would think.”

“Yes, but less entertaining.” Radonis smiles. Dorian chuckles quietly, and he turns, pouring wine into a glass, which he then brings to Radonis. When Radonis takes the glass, Dorian gestures to the chairs and they sit. 

 

Radonis takes a sip of his wine and his lip quirks in pleasure. Rich, redolent with cherry, but the feel of it in his mouth after he has swallowed is very dry; it is a beautiful vintage, though Radonis is certain he has never tasted its like before. 

Dorian catches his expression and grins. “Do you like it? It’s rather good, I think. From the family vineyard, of course. We had a good year, for once.”

“It is excellent,” Radonis murmurs. He takes another sip, then lowers his glass. “To business?”

“Certainly. Of course, we must create a believable history, one which won’t be fleshed out too much by damaging rumour, but which is also vague enough to allow for… slippage, shall we say.” Dorian waves a hand and shrugs. “In case one of us has a moment and forgets a detail.”

“Indeed,” Radonis says, giving Dorian a half-smile. “Though I would think that the less we say, the better. All rumour ends at my door — I have many eyes and ears within the Senatorial families and there is no fact that money will not buy. In my experience, though people will certainly be curious, the only thing we must be aware of is the potential for rumour to become accepted as fact. That is where the danger lies.”

“Mm,” Dorian murmurs. “So? What story do we put about? Why has there been no rumour of this relationship beforehand?”

“For the very reason of who we are,” Radonis says simply. “I am very powerful, with many distractions — you travel a great deal, back and forth to the south. In the beginning, perhaps it was merely casual. We have been very discrete, of course. But feelings grow, as they are wont to do.” He smiles, “It almost sounds like a love match.”

Dorian laughs a little, then coughs into his fist, still smiling. It’s a rather pleased smile, and the look of it makes Radonis smile in return. Then Dorian sighs ruefully and says quietly, “Not that anyone would know what  _ that _ looked like.”

“Come, come,” Radonis chides him gently, still smiling, “There have been love matches among the Altii. Look at…” He curls his beard around one finger and feigns confusion, shifting in his seat. “Uh…”

Dorian laughs again and rolls his eyes, and Radonis sits back, pleased he has been able to make a little joke, that it has been received well. Dorian cocks his head then, and states, “The Alexius’ were a love match.”

“You mean Gereon and Livia?” Radonis pauses, then shrugs. “Well, look how that turned out. Perhaps it is best if we do not make too much of it.”

Dorian’s smile dies and he bristles. Briefly, he opens his mouth as if to say something, but then closes it abruptly and nods.

 

A silence falls, and Radonis cannot think why it is suddenly so uncomfortable. He swirls his wine in the goblet, watching Dorian from the corner of his eye. Suddenly, blindingly, a realisation occurs — Dorian had been Gereon Alexius’ only student. Slowly, Radonis takes a deep breath. “My apologies,” he murmurs on the exhale, “I have been uncouth. Ambassador, please forgive me.”

Dorian purses his lips in a brief moue of contempt. Radonis lowers his chin slightly, and Dorian shrugs. “Forgiven,” he mutters, and waves a hand.

Radonis cannot help his sardonic snort. Dorian looks at him sharply and Radonis cocks his head. “You have never been shy with your opinion before. I  _ was _ uncouth — you have every right to be angry with me. Tell me so, if you wish.”

“And what would be the point of that?” Dorian asks. His voice is quiet, certainly angry… but more than that, it is sad as well. “Gereon made poor decisions — he rued them in the end, but every decision he made was out of love.” Dorian sniffs, then shrugs. “I am not angry about that... or not only about that. It’s just... You seem to be telling me, over and over again, that it is a mistake to love, that you seem not to think yourself capable of it, and I… I just cannot comprehend it. That’s all.”

Radonis quirks an eyebrow. “I do not believe it is a  _ mistake  _ to love. I believe it is a mistake to admit such an emotion as it pertains to an individual. But is it a mistake to love Tevinter, to love knowledge?” Radonis shakes his head. “I think not.”

Dorian snorts and rolls his eyes. “You  _ are _ a cautious man, Archon. The crux of this entire premise is that you would do  _ anything  _ for the man you loved. Which, in this scenario we are establishing, happens to be me.” His lip curls slightly into a rather bitter smile, and then it fades. “You will ruin everything if they do not believe you capable of it.”

“And you will ruin everything if you go rushing into things,” Radonis states. “This is no light matter we have before us, Ambassador. We are seeking to change an entrenched attitude, not just amongst our peers, but potentially for the whole nation. Tevinter is not a society which takes weakness lightly; perhaps they might have coddled this attitude in Fereldan, but here, to admit weakness — and love  _ is  _ such a weakness — is to expose a place where your enemies might strike you.”

 

Silence for a time, then Dorian sighs. “If you really believe that,” he asks softly, “Why did you agree?”

“I no longer know,” Radonis spits, then hisses a breath in through his teeth. He grinds them together, looking at Dorian, then swallows and shakes his head, trying to free himself of the notion that he must tell Dorian the story of his curtailed involvement with Valarian. “I… it doesn’t matter,” Radonis finally chokes out. “I agreed, and unless we are both in this with ready hearts and keen minds, then we must go no further. Is that what you wish, Dorian?”

“Of course not,” Dorian responds. His voice is still soft, and when Radonis looks at him, he sees that Dorian is looking at him with a piercing, curious gaze. There is silence for a beat, then Dorian says, “We have to make them believe it, Archon; that’s all. I know you understand that.”

Radonis nods curtly, then sips his wine. He takes a deep breath to steady himself, then asks, “So? What is it that makes our relationship so special?”

Dorian smiles, rather slyly. “Why, it is just as you said, Archon. A love of Tevinter, and a love of knowledge. Perhaps we met through mutual acquaintances?”

“That sounds agreeable,” Radonis murmurs, beginning to recover himself. Part of him marvels at Dorian’s adroit handling of the emotional parameters of this conversation — though it hardly makes sense to wonder, given that Dorian is an Imperial Ambassador. Being diplomatic is his work. “Shall we follow the common method — affinitas to formalise the relationship, then conubium? Or… whatever comes after for a relationship such as ours?” Radonis pauses, allowing no trace of the awkwardness he feels to show on his face.  _ Marriage _ , something within him wonders,  _ Did you just assume that this farce would last to that? Ridiculous _ . He continues, still in the same tone, “Do we announce it… when? I cannot think of an adequate occasion.”

“Perhaps at the summersend ball? I can only assume you will be giving one again this year, once those Altii who have left the city to tend to their country estates have returned?” 

“Hm. Perhaps. I will indeed be holding the celebration… it is confirmed for two months hence...however…” Radonis pauses and curls the end of his beard around one finger once more while he considers. But he can think of no better solution, so he shrugs. “That sounds fine. Now… your parents are still living, are they not? Your lady mother?”

Dorian’s mouth curls downward, as if he has tasted something bitter. “Yes,” he says, “They both live.”

“Good,” Radonis says. The word rises a little at the end, the inflexion turning it into half a question. When Dorian says no more, Radonis resolves to drop it.

 

He looks away, scanning the room. Seeing a bookcase, laden with tomes, he rises, smiling a little, and points. “Would you mind if I perused your shelves?”

Dorian looks a little surprised, then shrugs. “Of course not, Archon.”

Radonis nods, inclining his head by way of thanks. He puts his wineglass down upon a side table, and walks the few paces to the bookshelves. As is his habit, he tucks both hands into his sleeves as he tilts his head; it is a method by which he can keep his hands from reaching out to touch the faded leather of the spines of the books. Radonis knows that there are few things more damaging to artefacts of knowledge than an idle touch. Oil from the skin imparts itself into leather or vellum, even worse into paper; moisture from a fingertip curtails the life of each page. The friction of the book opening and closing, pages rubbing against the other, damaging the ink — the very light itself causes the colours to fade. So he reads the titles, embossed in elegant script upon the spines, smiling slightly when he reaches one in particular. 

“ _ Carmenum di Amatus _ ,” he says, turning to Dorian. “This is a fine edition.”

Dorian laughs and approaches. “Well,” he begins, then clears his throat, smirking at Radonis. “If one cannot have one’s  _ fine editions _ of erotic poetry on prominent display in one's own home, then where can one?”

Radonis laughs, untucking his hands from his sleeves. He puts his hand out toward the volume, then hesitates, looking again at Dorian. “May I?” Dorian nods, and Radonis retrieves the book. “It is many years since I have read  _ Carmenum _ ,” he murmurs, “I heard that the false Chantry banned it.”

“They tend to do that with all the really interesting things,” Dorian says, and chuckles. Radonis sees him shrug from the corner of his eye, but his gaze is truly captivated by the beautiful text before him. The works of the mysterious author of the book before him are erotic, or at least some of them; that is not the reason Radonis likes it. He enjoys it for the petty, spiteful little poems, the sort of braggadocio a young author would write, never expecting it to be read. It seems to him to be the work of an Altii; someone who had close connections to the class, anyway. Scholars of the Imperium have puzzled over the Carmenium for years, never yet settling on a convincing argument as to its authorship, but Radonis cherishes his theory, keeping it close to his chest.

“Ah!” he says, turning a page and smiling. “Here it is.  _ He smiles. Whatever it is, wherever he is, whatever he’s doing, he smiles. He’s got a disease. _ ” Radonis laughs, breaking the quiet of the room, and Dorian joins him, chuckling quietly. “Ah, whomever wrote these poems, they certainly did not trust a smiling man,” Radonis says, and makes to close the book. 

But Dorian’s hand is out, lightly taking it from him, smiling. Their fingers brush and for a second, they gaze at each other. Then Dorian’s eyes are cast down, onto the pages before him, and he flicks through the poems rapidly. His smile changes and Radonis watches as Dorian reads aloud:

_ “O what freedom from care is more joyful _

_ than when the mind lays down its burden _

_ and weary, back home from foreign toil, _

_ we rest in the bed we longed for? _

_ This moment’s worth all the labour.” _

He pauses, smiling at the page, then lifts his eyes once more to Radonis. “You see, Archon? Not all the poems are filthy or cruel. I rather like that one.”

 

All Radonis can do is nod — it seems his words have quite left him.  _ It’s about coming home,  _ he thinks, then he swallows and shrugs. “Well, it exposes the little we know about the poet themselves. Educated enough to write, wealthy enough to have time to do it…”

“And rather an idealist in affairs of the heart.”

Radonis chuckles. “Yes. That seems to have been their downfall. The poet became more reckless after the first cycle of poems, the ones with the thinly-veiled bird metaphors, of course.”

“But they recover — they tell you of their friends, they pick fights with political leaders of the day, make fun of their enemies… it’s very personable poetry, not just erotic, but… so much more.”

“It is about life, you mean?”

Dorian nods, smiling. “All the best things in life. Discoveries, arguments, loss and pain — triumph and love and cruelty. Terrible things, and lovely things, and things which are both.”

Radonis narrows his eyes slightly, considering Dorian, who gazes right back, his grey eyes clear. It’s a fascinating concept, but more fascinating is the depth of Dorian’s emotional range — the way he expresses himself. Suddenly, without meaning to ask the question, Radonis asks, “Have you written poetry yourself, Ambassador?”

Dorian’s smile changes, becomes shy. “Certainly not in this league. My first blundering efforts were paens to a boy named Gaius.” Dorian shakes his head and rolls his eyes, smiles ruefully. “They were rather dreadful. One of the lines began something like  _ O hair of ebony sheen, makes me quiver to my spleen _ .”

“Oh dear,” Radonis chuckles. “That is unfortunate.”

“I am talented in many directions,” Dorian grins, “but not that one.”

Radonis laughs again. There is certainly a… warm regard here, a feeling building up between them.  _ Shared tastes, and he is a witty conversationalist _ , he thinks to himself,  _ of course he is pleasant to spend time with. It’s his job to be pleasant. You’re here for a purpose, do not forget it. _

 

Abruptly, as if he has read Radonis’ thoughts, Dorian clears his throat and puts the book gently back on the shelf. “Well, I’m sure I have taken up more of your time than is strictly fair, Archon. There is one question which I would like to put to you, if you are amenable — would you make the announcement? It hardly seems becoming for me to do it.”

Radonis blinks, then nods. “Of course,” he says, “Though… would you like me to work within any particular parameters? How much information would you feel comfortable me giving?”

“I’m sure you will do rather well, Archon,” Dorian says blithely, and grins. It’s not the same smile as before, however — this is not entirely pleasant, and seems like a mechanism to deflect attention, or divert it. Radonis frowns slightly, and opens his hands as he explains, “I do not doubt my ability to explain the situation. Rather, I wish to make sure that I will push the issue as much, but no further, than is necessary to enact the changes you seek — or at least to begin them. I am cautious, as you’ve noted.”

Dorian takes a deep breath, then his eyebrows rise slightly and his smile fades. When he next speaks, his voice is changed, softer. “Archon… I have seen you speak on many occasions. You leave your audience in no doubt as to your authority, your certainty on any issue. I am under no illusions that your words will change anything — it is our actions after the announcement which will prove much.”

_ Prove? _ Radonis thinks, the word seeming to burst in his mind. However, instead of questioning his reaction, he nods. “Fine. The summersend ball is still at an adequate time distance; it should give us more than enough time to plan any further details. Ambassador, I will take my leave. Thank you for your hospitality.”

“It was my pleasure, Archon. If you will wait here for a moment, I will ask Julius to gather your entourage.”

Radonis inclines his head, and Dorian smiles, before walking quickly from the room.  He is left alone next to the laden bookshelf, in the sublime blue-white light of the villa, the sight of the sea out of the window somehow forlorn, all that blue marching away to meet the blue of the horizon. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few notes for this chapter --   
>  \- Information on [Eleni Zinovia](http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Eleni_Zinovia) can be found at the Dragon Age Wikia, that most excellent of resources of random factoids.  
>  \- The two poems mentioned as part of the conversation about the Carmenium di Amatus are actually by a poet called Gaius Valerius Catullus. Catullus was part of a 'new school' of Roman poetry, and remains famous to this day for writing some of the rudest poems in existence. Well, they certainly knotted the Victorians knickers. Anyway, the first poem mentioned is [Catullus 39 (Egnatius of the White Teeth)](https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Translation:Catullus_39), and second is [Catullus 31 (Sirmio)](https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Translation:Catullus_31). Now, I am no Latin scholar, so I had to crib internet resources for these translations, which can be found at the links -- and therefore, my thanks to the translators of these works.


	4. Chapter 4

The music swells, and internally, Radonis rolls his eyes. The woman inclines her head, smiling at him, then touches his arm briefly. The summer fashions for the Altus women are really quite scandalous this year; this woman wears a diaphanous white fabric, partially revealing patterned lace in a dark colour which clings to every curve. The fabric is so thin that Radonis can see the outline of her areola, even through the lace. She catches his gaze and titters, then hides her mouth behind her fan. “Archon,” she purrs, “I would love the opportunity to introduce you to my daughter, Genetiva. She is a glory to behold, hair the colour of ripe wheat, eyes the colour of the sun on the sea… her magic, of course, comes from our line which is proven to produce mages of the most sterling quality…”

 _And does she have all her own teeth_ ? Radonis thinks scornfully. This kind of conversation is nothing new — but the tone of it disturbs him. It bears too much of a resemblance to conversations he imagines taking place in the slave markets. _And isn’t that an interesting thought_ , something whispers in the back of his mind, _the question of why you feel appalled by young Altii being traded in this fashion, and not the lower classes…_

 _It is not the same,_ he chides himself, wondering where such a thought has come from. He lifts his chin, feigning interest in the woman’s continued prattling about her daughter. After a minute though, he finds his attention beginning to wander, and his gaze slides from her face to the group over her left shoulder. _Ah_ , Radonis thinks, a small smile curling his lip, _that is perhaps the answer._

 

Dorian stands there, smiling at the woman in blue on his right. Radonis can see his face in profile — he looks thoroughly absorbed in what she is saying. The woman waves her hand and tosses her hair; these gestures tear Radonis’ focus from Dorian’s face for a moment, enough time to recognise the woman as Maevaris Tilani. And then, Dorian laughs — the sound of it is so delighted that Radonis blinks, smiling himself. The joy shining from Dorian’s face makes his heart leap into his chest, then he remembers himself and turns his gaze back to the woman before him. She is returning his smile, obviously thinking that it is directed at internal thoughts of her daughter. “Oh, Archon,” she begins in a low, simpering tone, “I can have her brought to your cham…”

“Thank you, but that will not be necessary,” Radonis murmurs. He nods to the woman, who looks suddenly both crestfallen and deeply offended. “If you will excuse me?”

“Of course, Archon,” the woman says, but Radonis scarcely hears it. Already, he is moving toward Dorian’s small group; the moment he begins to walk over, Tilani catches his approach and touches Dorian’s arm, leaning over to mutter something in his ear. Dorian’s expression shifts, seeming surprised, then he turns and smiles at Radonis. The smile is one of such obvious — or extremely well-feigned — pleasure that Radonis cannot help but return it. He stops before the little group, accepting their bows, giving his own shallow bow as custom dictates. He inclines his head to Dorian, who smiles in return. “Tevinter in aeternum vite,” Dorian murmurs, then says, “Most High Archon. I was not expecting to see you this evening.”

“Oh _Dorian_ ,” Tilani chastises, smirking, “It’s hardly politic to say such a thing. Really, your manners have become _appalling_.” She turns to Radonis, sweeping into a perfect courtly bow, the shimmering skirts of her robe flowing elegantly behind her with the gesture. She is attired in much the same manner as all the women here, though her garments are more subtle — the lace under the sky-blue sheer fabric is visible, but just barely. “Most High Archon,” she says, “It is my pleasure to make your acquaintance. I do apologise for the rudeness of my colleague.” Her eyes dance with mirth, and Radonis smiles at her, inclining his head.

“Magister Tilani,” he murmurs, “There is no need to apologise. I am thoroughly aware of Pavus’ barbarian tendencies.”

Tilani laughs; Dorian sighs and shakes his head. “I see honesty is just as out of favour at court as I had remembered,” he says, mock-sulkily. “I meant only to imply that I was _pleased_ to see the Most High Archon, though I was not daring to hope for an opportunity to speak with him.”

Tilani and Radonis both laugh. Dorian grins, then narrows his eyes, looking around the room. “You’re under quite a deal of observation, Archon.”

Radonis huffs. “There is nothing new in that. I expect there are more than a few people in attendance rather scandalised by the fact that I am not giving you both the cold shoulder.”

“Well, _I_ certainly appreciate it. I’ve never liked the cold,” Dorian sniffs, waving his hand in the air. Tilani chuckles and flicks her fan open to speak from behind it.

“Dorian has told me in part what you plan,” she murmurs, looking at Radonis, her blue eyes gleaming. “Speaking as someone who has rather too often come up against the edicts of the mos maiorum, I have to say, I salute the effort.” She closes her fan, glances at Dorian pointedly, and says softly, “You could stand to provoke a little rumour, you know.”

“Mae,” Dorian says warningly, and Radonis narrows his eyes.

“Actually, I agree,” he says softly, “At the moment, so little ties us together… as we spoke of the other day, Magister Pavus, we have our reasons for that. However, now that we have been seen together…”

Tilani nods. “All you need do is be seen leaving the room together. And with this many people present… well, you know how the Altii love to talk.”

Radonis looks at Dorian, who returns his gaze with an arched eyebrow. Silently, Radonis proffers his arm — Dorian’s lip curls into a small smile, and he accepts it without saying anything. Tilani flicks her fan open once more, her eyes laughing, and sweeps away, head held high. Radonis watches her for a moment, then murmurs, “Come. I know where we will not be interrupted.”

Dorian nods, and together, they leave the chamber, the music fading into obscurity behind them.

 

ooo

 

The antechamber is furnished with violet and dark wood shades, the shimmering light of the veilfire lamps complimenting the color scheme, but casting a ghostly pallor over them both. Radonis turns, dropping his arm as he does, and Dorian clasps both his hands in front of himself, grinning at Radonis. “Well?” he asks, “Where did you suddenly get this boldness from, Archon? You’d told me you were a cautious old man. And to think I almost believed you!”

Radonis chuckles, and walks to the sideboard to retrieve two glasses. He turns, raising his eyebrows at Dorian, who shrugs and extends his hand with the glass he’s bought from the ballroom. “I could use a refill, if you’re offering.”

Radonis smiles. “Certainly.”

Dorian smiles in return, approaching Radonis with his glass extended. In the act of refilling Dorian’s glass, Radonis feels a peculiar sensation come over him — a sense of great warmth and comfort. He is acutely aware of how close Dorian is standing, and when he moves away, something in Radonis mourns the loss of contact.

Dorian smiles, tight-lipped, and arches an eyebrow, then clears his throat. “You know,” he begins, “There’s nothing quite like summer parties in Tevinter. Though this one could really stand a few well-oiled young men by way of aesthetic improvement.”

Radonis snorts and smiles. “Personally, I find the addition quite unnecessary.”

“Oh really?” Dorian grins, “Has your preference changed in the last week or two?” The smile turns wicked, and he asks slyly, “Or did you have a particular young man that you were pining for… Valarian, perhaps?”

Radonis feels his face slacken, the smile sliding from it. There’s a moment of silence, then Dorian sighs.

“I know rumour, you know that. I suppose… I just…” Dorian smiles and shrugs, then shakes his head, “This may sound ridiculous, but… I wanted to get to know you. I… I’m still trying to figure you out, I suppose.”

“Then that was a clumsy way to go about beginning it,” Radonis says, his voice bitter. He exhales, turns and walks to a high-backed ottoman, then sits. Dorian is still standing awkwardly, and Radonis purses his lips, thinking. “Dorian,” he says finally, “I apologise. All my pretty words about secrets…” he pauses and sighs again, “But keeping secrets is a hard habit to break.”

“I know that. I apologise as well — I had assumed much about your relationship with him, and clearly did not realise the depth of feeling which it entailed,” Dorian murmurs, and takes one pace forward, toward him. Radonis looks at him steadily, then smiles a little, and pats the plush upholstery of the seat beside him. Dorian smiles back -- the small, self-effacing one, one of the expressions which Radonis rather likes. _Don’t_ he chastises himself, and he withdraws his hand, putting it to the stem of his wine glass. There’s quiet in the room, then Radonis sighs.

“It was only a matter of time before you knew about my relationship with Valarian. Honestly, the only reason I have not confessed it sooner was that… I suppose there is still part of me which questions your motivations for this endeavour which we are embarking upon. Trust isn’t in my nature… or if it once was, it certainly is no longer.” Radonis takes a sip of wine, then continues, “For the most part, my history is probably rather similar to any one of those with similar tastes to our own, which means that those I have loved have not known that I loved them. Indeed, in my youth, I loved power more than anything else; it meant that, for the most part, the _oiled young men_ you speak of were bed slaves, following the social convention.”

Radonis smiles sadly at the memory, and shakes his head. “I knew what I desired — or rather, from whom I desired it — was wrong; at least, I believed it was, because that was what society taught me. I acquired power; I caused my family’s name to be lauded throughout the Imperium… and so, society rewarded me for keeping such a secret. Valarian… he was the last in a line of men who have...” He shrugs, and glances at Dorian, then away. “I would hesitate to use the phrase _abandoned me_ , but that is certainly how it feels. Though I suspect perhaps that he would posit that I put too much pressure on him.” Radonis shrugs and is silent.

 

Dorian nods. “It does feel like abandonment… some kind of betrayal, anyway. And… well, this may not be true of your experience, but for myself… the older I get, the more I find the adage _plenty more fish in the sea_ suits me less and less.”

“Yes,” Radonis sighs. “One almost thinks that one could get used to the loneliness of it, if it wasn’t so very lonely.”

Dorian laughs a little, then lapses into a thoughtful silence. For a moment, Radonis thinks he will change the subject, and then Dorian clears his throat.

“Am I to assume that Valarian and yourself never made any kind of secret commitment to one another?” he asks. Radonis looks at him and shakes his head briefly. Dorian nods. “I see. And yet… you at least have no wife to stand in the way...” he murmurs, and Radonis snorts. A brief silence, then Dorian asks, “Oh..?”

“I loved power, and I was a dutiful son,” Radonis mutters, and looks at his hands, clasped around the stem of the wine-glass. The shame which he had kept close for so many years threatens the dam he’d so painstakingly built around it, and he clears his throat and looks up sharply at Dorian. “I was a dutiful son, so yes, I was married once. It was a long time ago, Dorian, but…” He sighs and continues, “No-one expects you to love your wife; but the mos maiorum dictates that you do not commit open adultery, and that you maintain at least a veneer of normalcy over your household.” Dorian releases a bitter-sounding sigh, and Radonis uses the opportunity to take a sip of wine — it tastes too coppery to him, and he grimaces, then smiles sadly.

“Yes. Our house was anything but normal… but it was good, for a time. I have always been a brilliant student of politics, and Domitia was an excellent politician’s wife. Her father was a senior enchanter at the Circle of Carastes, and her mother was connected to both the upper echelons of the Chantry and the Magisterium. She had learnt the nuances of politics, perfectly complimenting my own political tendencies. She was charming, elegant, devastating in social situations…” Radonis pauses, shakes his head. “Early in our marriage, she found letters… written to me by one of the sons of a well-known family, with whom I was conducting an affair.” Radonis holds his breath, then waves a hand to dismiss the thought. “You undoubtedly know how that story ends. She was politically astute, as I said -- used the information to wrest certain guarantees from me, one of which was that I would claim any child she bore as my own. She told me that she was interested in power, not bloodlines. I could respect that — I _do_ respect that. But she died in childbirth; the child she would have borne died also. I never found out who sired her.”

 

Radonis takes another sip of wine, listening carefully to Dorian’s silence. Without moving his head, he looks at Dorian; the younger man is staring into his own wine, pensive. Quite suddenly, he looks up, and asks Radonis, “Why did you marry her? If you never wanted her, if you never wanted each other, why put yourselves through that?”

He feels his mouth twist, and he shrugs. “Magister Pavus, I have already told you.” Radonis looks at Dorian steadily, and smiles, “I married because I love power, and marriage was the fastest way to cement my place in the structure. I cannot speak for Domitia, of course, but that was the public face of it. Of course, the truth is always more complex than just one simple answer.” Radonis sighs, “I suppose… there is another reason. I married because I loved my father, and he asked me to. He was a remarkable and brilliant man; gentle with his children, careful with his wife. I know that they did not love each other in a romantic sense, certainly they did not show anything like physical affection toward each other. But they absolutely respected one another -- without a doubt. Is it so strange that I wanted a semblance of the understanding and care that I saw evidenced between my parents? Is it so outside of the realms of your understanding that I should feel myself a failure because of what seemed like my defective nature, and wish to do anything to snatch at what I thought I might never be able to have in any other way?”

 

Dorian’s mouth quirks, and for a moment, he looks both resigned and miserable. “It isn’t _outside the realms of my understanding_ ,” he says quietly, and sighs. “It’s not so unusual to want to be loved.”

Radonis makes a noise of assent, and the two of them lapse into silence. Dorian seems even more thoughtful than before, almost brooding. From the corner of his eye, Radonis watches him, then finally, he murmurs, “And you? You have never married.”

“No,” Dorian says flatly. “I refused. I was promised in marriage to a daughter of one of my father’s political allies… but even as much as I disliked her on a personal level, I would not pretend to be something I am not. Before I left Tevinter… I was in love.” Dorian is silent for a moment, then clears his throat. “It does not matter. My time in the south taught me much — I alluded to my time with the Iron Bull in one of our earlier conversations, but truly… the whole experience was so deeply unsettling in such a positive way…” Dorian laughs a little under his breath and turns to Radonis, “It _isn’t_ unusual to want to be loved. My time in the south resolved me to that; it’s part of the reason that…” he laughs again and shakes his head. “Never mind.”

“No,” Radonis says, leaning forward, turning to look at Dorian. “Part of the reason for what?”

Dorian is silent for a moment, then says, “Part of the reason for our little experiment. Oh, I know that this is not real, what we claim to have. But you mentioned that the relationship must be as beyond reproach as possible.  I would say that it must go beyond that -- to the ideal. I wish… I want...” Suddenly, he laughs and puts a hand to his temple, shaking his head. “This is ridiculous.”

Radonis remains silent. Eventually, Dorian sighs and glances at him, then away. There is something of reproach in his gaze, or at least that is how Radonis interprets it initially… and then, with some surprise, he realises that it is actually guilt.

Radonis swallows hard, his eyebrows rising; then against his will, he barks a laugh. “Indeed,” he says, and lifts a hand, meaning to touch Dorian’s knee. Quickly, he catches himself and puts the hand back around the stem of his wineglass, almost empty now. “Indeed,” he repeats, then shrugs. “So? Are you going to tell me what it is that you wish for?”

“The ideal,” Dorian murmurs. “The ideal is… well, that this isn’t fake.” He laughs strangely, then sighs. “The ideal is that we _do_ love each other, and that I’m not just… that we’re not both just using each other for political expediency. To my mind, that makes it too much like… well, like what you’ve just described your marriage as being, what my parents have, what I see all around me.” His jaw works, and he shakes his head. “You’re lucky not to be an idealist, Archon. It makes one rather stupid.”

Radonis smiles, though his heart suddenly feels heavy and sore. “I would not say _stupid_ , my dear Ambassador.” He swallows and tells Dorian softly, “I rather like your idealism.”

Dorian smiles in return; though the smile is sad. “I don’t know. Now that I have seen what love can be… what it means to be loved…” He sighs and looks at Radonis. “This must all sound like I’m getting cold feet.”

“And are you?”

Dorian sighs. “No. Of course not. For one thing, we could change so much with our effort — you are, I must say, very agreeable to spend time with, so that part of it is not a burden… not to me, at least.” Dorian shrugs and laughs, “And it’s also rather too late for backing out, and cold feet isn’t something I _do._ I am resolved, Archon.”

“As am I,” Radonis murmurs. “Now, there is something which occured to me; I have mulled it over, and I will suggest it, since we have this opportunity to speak with one another. If you wish to think on it, please do, though I fear our time grows short at this juncture.” Radonis takes a breath, then says, “After affinitas, it is customary for couples to begin the process of getting to know each other better. While this is scarcely necessary for us — or, rather, the origin of the relationship which we claim to have — it is part of the traditional arrangement.” Radonis smiles, “Not that our arrangement can strictly be called _traditional_.”

Dorian makes a noise of assent, and Radonis inclines his head. After a moment, he continues, “I can have the suite which adjoins mine prepared for you, and all that would remain to fulfill this part of the charade is for you to place objects there. Of course, we have discussed the need for the utmost verisimilitude -- and while obviously, you will need to maintain your own apartments, it is also vital that this relationship be observed to be as beyond reproach as possible. Maker knows it will be tested.” Radonis snorts and raises his glass, “Secrets, Legatum mi. Here we are, back to secrets.”

Dorian smirks slightly, and he raises his own glass, but does not drink. After a moment, he murmurs, “Archon, if I’m not very much mistaken, you’re asking me to move in with you.”

Radonis shrugs. “Not at all. All we need is for the bed to appear slept in occasionally — the mos maiorum prohibits more than that, as you know — and sundry items which clearly belong to you to be left there. I can arrange all of that, if you will lend me the items. We can, of course, discuss it again later.” He blinks at Dorian, then returns the smirk. “Would that be an acceptable addition to our arrangement?”

Dorian sniffs and narrows his eyes, then looks at his wine glass. He then raises it to his lips and, catching Radonis’ eye, takes a sip. Radonis waits as Dorian appears to consider, as a small smile appears in the corner of his mouth, and he looks at Radonis again through his lashes.

Radonis sighs. “Don’t play the coquet, Magister Pavus. It ill-suits you. If you have something to say, then say it.”

“You speak of secrets,” Dorian murmurs, and shifts a little in his seat, then takes another sip of wine. He licks his lip, bites it, then mutters, “I... would prefer to take up the rooms after we have announced ourselves.”

“Oh. I see,” Radonis says softly. He frowns slightly, puzzled, then opens his mouth to ask why. But then he realises quite suddenly that it must be for the sake of the look of it, and promptly closes it again.

Dorian laughs softly. “We will be missed, Archon,” he says lightly, then grins mockingly, “I would not want the rumours to consist entirely of your prowess.”

“My, my, we _are_ barbarian,” Radonis chides gently, laughing himself. “Come then. Let us join the dance once more.”

And they rise together, smiling, and exit the antechamber, back into the noise and light of the ball.


	5. Chapter 5

 

“...And I say, Magister Aemilli, that if you had bothered to step outside your estate once in a while, you may have seen how the aqueduct is failing…”

Aemilli, a pompous fool if Radonis has ever seen one, snorts loudly over the general hubbub of the Magisterium. “Pavus speaks utter tripe, as usual!” he bellows. “The aqueduct was built centuries ago, that is certain. But the water provided to the publica balneum has never been a cause for concern before!” He throws an arm wide, almost catching a dozing Magister in the face with the gesture. “Pavus wants to divert attention from the Lucernii and their treasonous enterprises! They threaten to unseat the public order, and maybe even… the Archon himself!”

 

Radonis rises slowly, and the Magisterium falls to a hush. Moths flutter around the bright lanterns, their battering against the glass audible in the quiet. His back has been giving him trouble again, but he’ll be damned if he’ll let this fool continue. He sweeps his gaze around the floor; all eyes are upon him. Radonis arches his neck and looks directly at Magister Aemilli, who quails slightly, his chins wobbling. 

“If you have proof of a Lucerni threat to my continued reign as Archon,” Radonis says, soft and dangerous, “You would tell me, would you not, Magister Aemilli?”

Aemilli blinks, his head jerking a little as he struggles to frame an answer. “I… yes, Archon, of course,” he blusters finally, his voice hoarse. “I would, of course, I merely meant that…”

“Oh good,” Radonis purrs, smiling slightly. He continues to stare at Aemilli for a moment. Then, very briefly, he moves his gaze to Pavus, and gives a small nod.

This was not in their plan.  _ And what of it, _ Radonis thinks,  _ I am only beginning a little sooner than we had anticipated. _ Pavus frowns slightly, as if he is trying to read Radonis’ expression. Finally, a look of understanding crosses his features — he smirks and shrugs.  _ Good _ , Radonis thinks, and once more fixes a baleful gaze upon Aemilli.

 

“Because, Magister Aemilli, you are not in possession of all the facts pertaining to this situation.” He watches, pleased, as a confused frown furrows the Magister’s brow, then raises his eyes, once more sweeping his gaze around the room. Archon Radonis smiles slightly and says in a strong voice, “I wish to inform the Magisterium, as is the custom, that I have intentions of affinitas. Magister Pavus, if you will?”

A sound like a collective intake of breath sweeps the Senate. In his reign as Archon, Radonis has never heard the building so quiet. The silence goes on and on, and his gaze moves once more to Pavus, who stands, stock still, at the opposite end of the room. As Radonis watches, Dorian licks his lip and lifts his chin, his eyes locked on Radonis. Slowly, Radonis raises his hand; Dorian blinks and nods, then begins to move.

 

As Dorian crosses the floor, the muttering starts. Puzzled at first, it grows louder and louder; louder still when Dorian reaches out and takes Radonis’ hand. His face is calm however, and Radonis wonders at his composure. His own heart feels as if it is about to burst from his chest, it is beating so hard. The noise rises around them, and he knows this feeling, he  _ knows it _ . Years it has been, surely, since he felt this anger. Anger at what the world had made him — powerful and yet unloved, unlovable. Quite suddenly, he remembers Dorian’s words regarding the Imperium, the Altii, the foundation of lies and secrets that Tevinter has rested upon for so many years, and unconsciously, he grips his hand harder. The babble, Maker, the  _ shouting _ , he can’t stand it. Motionless for a moment, he lets the noise flow around him and then, quite suddenly, he has reached his limit.

His staff gives him away. It begins with a soft yellow glow at the tip where the primary casting materials lie, but when Radonis shifts his grip on it, lifting it from the ground, the glow expands, erupts, becoming brilliant white light. Someone shouts and, if he had been in the frame of mind to notice, he would have observed several of the magisters present covering their eyes. But he isn’t -- he is far too angry to notice anything other than the feel of the mana within himself, the feel of Dorian’s skin against one palm, the feel of the wood of his staff in the other. And then he slams the stave-end of his staff hard against the marble of the Senate floor, so hard it leaves a tiny crater, and shouts, “Silence!”

 

Another collective intake of breath; then sullen quiet falls. Radonis glares around at those present from the dias on which he stands. When he next speaks, his voice is once more quiet, though he feels as if every word trembles in his throat, shaking with fury as he is. “I am Radonis, Archon of the Tevinter Imperium, Ducibus Debebantur of Seheron, Praefectus Classis of the Nocen Sea. I am Eloquii Mysticii of the Circles of Tevinter, Pater Excelsis of the True Chantry.” Exhaling softly, he squeezes Dorian’s hand as gently as he can and lifts his chin. “Both parties are of age, and have succeeded their birthright, and hold no additional encumberment. Therefore, I hereby  _ inform _ the Senate of my intentions toward this  _ man _ , Magister Dorian of House Pavus, Imperial Ambassador to the Inquisition.”

The shocked quiet is broken by a small sound, and Radonis looks in the direction from which it has come. His magic writhes under his skin, barely contained rage, and yet some part of himself is still rational enough to watch the happenings around him. An older man is moving forward, toward the platform for speakers. He isn’t tall, but he carries himself well. When he reaches the platform, he turns, looking at Radonis, until Radonis nods. Then the man mounts the platform and bows low.

“Tevinter in aeternum vite,” he says, his voice a little rasping. “If it please the Archon, I am Magister Herogem, of House Silvius. We trace our heritage to the Black Age in the lands around Vol Dorma.”

Radonis inclines his head, waiting on what the man will say. Silvius does not make him wait for long.

“Affinitas is a serious undertaking for any of us. It leads, almost inevitably, to conubium -- marriage. It is serious not for ourselves, though it is one of the most serious contracts an Altus might undertake, their whole life long. No, not for us -- but for the continuation of our lines, our heritage, and our future, and the future of the Imperium as a whole. Archon, bearing this in mind… the claim you make to this… this  _ man _ … it is a fallacy. There can be no fruit of this union -- it is against the order of nature's laws. Surely you recollect the mos maiorum?”

“You are bold, Magister Silvius. Might I remind you that the maiorum is not a law?” Radonis returns, his voice soft, cold. “And your own marriage is childless, as I recall. Is it, too, against these  _ natural laws _ of which you speak?”

“True. My wife has borne no heirs.” Silvius lifts his chin, “But we have kept the sacred vows we made, and my brother has an heir.  My point is, if you overturn an element of the maiorum, you weaken the fabric of our society, and all the laws which uphold it. Mos maiorum -- customs of our ancestors. But these are more than customs… these are the warp and weft of the fabric which makes our society whole. If marriage can be overturned in this way, what is next? Make peace with the Qun? Allow them to overrun our cities, turn our people into automatons, collared and chained?” Silvius shakes his head and lowers his eyes while a susurrus of whispers runs around those assembled. “I ask with the utmost respect, Archon. The Magisterium does not stand in the way of you taking your pleasure as you will. But if you go through with this, you will tear Tevinter apart.”

 

Silvius bows low. And it is everything he had feared, everything he had said to Dorian, each misgiving spoken aloud in another's voice. Radonis feels the embers of his anger subside, to be replaced with a bitter shame.  _ This will be your undoing _ , something within him says, and his heart sinks. A louder murmur runs around the Magisterium again, and Radonis hears the stamp of several staves on the ground, as if in agreement. Silvius rises to stare solemnly at Radonis, who stares straight back. Dorian’s hand is still in his, and to Radonis it feels a little clammy. But it is still there — and as soon as Radonis realises that, he feels his chest fill with renewed irritation. The irritation carries him forward, reminds him of Dorian’s expressed wish for the ideal. He straightens his shoulders and stares down his nose at Silvius.

 

“Magister Silvius,” Radonis murmurs, “The matter is not one for discussion. As is my duty, as Archon’s before me have done, I have claimed my intent. You posited that formalising my relationship with Magister Pavus would tear Tevinter apart -- I refute that notion utterly, and instead posit that it is  _ secrets _ which tear at the stability of the Imperium. My predecessor, Davan, allowed Aurelian Titus to usurp his power so completely through the power of secrets, that the man’s stronghold in Ath Velanis has only now been crushed, eleven years after Titus began to assert his power. We  _ still  _ do not know Titus’ whereabouts, or the whereabouts of his most powerful allies. From what we can gather, Titus had been aiding Davan for years before he swept to power… this is the trouble with secrets. Like a creeping sickness, they grow, fester in dark places. It is my wish that we begin to shine a light on the secrets which cause disunity in the Imperium, and I intend to start with this.” 

Magisters glance at one another, some confused, some still obviously angry. Radonis smiles softly and continues, “I have no wish to discuss my relationship with Dorian further in this house. Frankly, I believe that there are greater issues at hand than my wish to see this done.” He lifts his chin again and stares around the chamber, before banging his staff on the ground once more. “I declare the Magisterium floor closed. The Senate will resume tomorrow with a decision due on the primary aqueduct of Minrathous, the apportioning of the lands of House Alexius, House Viteli and the final distribution of the holdings of the Ventatori traitors. Tevinter in aeternum vite.”

 

“Tevinter in aeternum vite,” rumbles around the chamber, and slowly, the Magisterium rises, beginning to shuffle out. Radonis does not move until the last Magister has gone from the chamber; then, he loosens his fingers from Dorian’s. Dorian smiles ruefully at him, and Radonis sighs, rolling his eyes. He lifts the hand which had once held Dorian’s and curls his beard around a finger. Dorian chuckles.

“How long had you been working on that little speech?” he enquires mildly.

Radonis shrugs. “A few days. I wanted to remind them that the spectre of Titus’ treason is a larger concern; and that ridiculous Silvius had already used the Qun, so…” He smirks, “Come. We have much to discuss.”

Dorian nods, biting his lip. For a moment, he watches Radonis; they watch each other, caught. Then abruptly, Radonis turns, and strides to a small door set into the marble. The waiting slave opens it quickly, and they both enter into the chamber beyond.

 

This is a place where no magister has stepped, prior to becoming Archon. Radonis turns slightly as he enters, noting an expression of fascination on Dorian’s face. Dorian catches the glance and grins. “I’ve always wondered what this room was like,” he says quietly and laughs, “It’s rather more dull than I’d expected.”

“And what, exactly, were you expecting?” Radonis asks, smiling at Dorian. “More gold, perhaps?”

“What  _ wasn’t _ I expecting?” Dorian tells him, accepting the wine which the slave has brought forward. “Opulence, splendor…”

Radonis snorts. “I had much of the opulence stripped out, as a matter of fact. Wars don’t pay for themselves.” 

“Indeed,” Dorian laughs. There’s something rather off about it, however, and Radonis looks at him, puzzled. Dorian stares back, almost challengingly. There’s a moment where the air seems to be charged with electricity — something passes between them, a tension, a deep well-spring of dark energy… and then it all falls away as Dorian sighs and looks away.

“No. It was just… well, I suppose it was listening to that…  _ Silvius _ , that horrible old beast, spout all of those things…”

“My dear Ambassador, you must have heard much worse…”

“Of course I have,” Dorian says curtly, takes a deep breath in and rises. He puts his empty wine glass on a sideboard as he passes, the sound of it abrupt in the stillness of the room, then paces to the wall opposite. “It’s just…” he begins, then huffs and irritated breath and turns.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says. “It’s getting late. May I call on you in the morning?”

 

Slowly, Radonis nods, rising also. “Dorian,” he says softly, approaching him slowly, “I…”

“Please,” Dorian smiles suddenly, lifting his chin, “Pay no mind to me. I suppose I might use this door?”

“Yes. There will be a guide on the other side with a torch. They will take you to the front of the Senate. Do you have an escort? A guard?”

Dorian snorts and rolls his eyes, then smirks. “I don’t need one. Anyone would be a fool  to get on my bad side tonight.”

“As you will,” Radonis says, though he frowns -- this arrogance seems feigned, and as the charade of their relationship continues, Dorian may find himself needing to fight, which concerns Radonis greatly. “Dorian, if…”

“Please.” The word is spoken politely, the smile is there -- but again, that feeling of forcedness, of a lie where truth rests too close to the surface for comfort. 

Radonis narrows his eyes and tells Dorian firmly, “Do not interrupt me again.”

 

“Then perhaps you should stop asking me questions, or at least attempting to,” Dorian says sharply, then blows out a breath. They stand, only a few paces apart, staring at each other, before Dorian looks away. “My apologies, Archon.”

“Do not apologise,” Radonis mutters. “You are tired. We both are. Come to me at noon tomorrow, if you wish. There will be time for discussion then.”

And with that, Dorian nods. Without looking at Radonis, he turns and strides away; he opens the door, closes it quietly behind himself, and is gone. 

For a while, Radonis stares at the door, wondering what it is that Dorian is fleeing from. Is he beginning to regret this game that they play, now that they are fully committed to it? Is he wondering if Radonis will make good on his end of the bargain?  _ Do not wonder _ , he thinks sadly,  _ he has stated that he will see this through to the end. But you do yourself — and the nation — a great disservice if you do not retain control over yourself. You want him because you need to turn the Lucernii to your cause. And all he wants from you is to extend his political reach, and that is right and good. Do not mistake it.  _

But now that the thought has occurred to him, it seems that his mind will not be satisfied until the fantasy is well and truly worn through. Each image is a flash of sensation -- of the taste of sweat, of the feel of skin under his fingers, of the nascent bloom of pleasure deep in his guts. Radonis’ lips part and he inhales sharply, closes his eyes. But the fire rises within him, and though he clenches his fists and his jaw against the creep of imagined sensation, it moves, slowly at first, and then with increasing speed and power. The beat of pulse under Dorian’s skin at his throat -- that look, both coy and cunning, which flits over his face sometimes. And what does he like? What does he want?  _ Anything, everything _ , the Dorian in Radonis’ mind whispers, hot and wet against his ear, his voice heavy with want… and then Radonis opens his eyes again.

 

He is on his own in the antechamber, his nails digging hard into his palms, unfulfilled desire in his chest. Grimly, he smiles.  _ Whatever Dorian does want, indeed _ , he scoffs at himself,  _ It isn’t you. Not like that, in any case. Don’t be an old fool. _

_No fool like an old fool_ ; the phrase leaps unbidden into his head. Radonis shakes his head, rises, and brushes off his robe before making for the door. Whatever happens next, he will take what comes. But he will not take what is not given freely; and he will not believe sweet lies, no matter how much he might be tempted.


	6. Chapter 6

In the morning, he surprises a slave putting his correspondence on his desk. She looks up, quickly, then back down at the notes in her hands. “Continue,” Radonis murmurs, and the slave does, putting down the individual pieces of paper in the order which she’s been given them. She makes a ladder with them on the surface of the desk, placing one on top of the other so that the seals can be seen, in the place where she’s been instructed to leave them, but is clearly moving as fast as she dares. Radonis watches her, then scowls. “Wait. Hand that one to me.”

A hesitation, then the slave makes a small noise of terror. With shaking hands, she puts the remainder of the letters down on the desk, and uses both hands to lift the top note from the small pile. It is stiff yellow-pink parchment, and Radonis arches an eyebrow when he sees the seal -- a peacock, its tail fanned. “Thank you. Leave the rest,” he tells the slave, who flees the room. 

Radonis sighs and cracks the seal. Scintilla leaps lightly onto the surface of the desk and walks along the edge, disrupting the neatly arranged correspondence. She bumps her head against Radonis’ elbow, then strokes it along the edge of his hand, and he smiles, then frowns down at the letter before him. It reads:

 

>   
>  House Pavus greets the most high Archon and wishes him much good fortune.
> 
> It is brought to our attention the occurances in the Senate yesterday evening, pertaining to the Archon’s declaration of affinitas toward our son, the representative of our most noble House in the Senate, and Imperial Ambassador to the Inquisition. With regard to this turn of events, we deem it appropriate to address several pressing issues with the Archon at the very earliest convenience. While our son is of age, we require assurances that the affinitas is being met with the sincerity and gravity that the situation demands.
> 
> Tevinter in aeternum vite.

 

Radonis reads it through once more, then folds the letter back into its stiff envelope and taps the edge of it against his lip. House Pavus. The letter mentions no names, but he has heard that the former Magister Pavus had, after Dorian’s succession to the Magisterium, retired to Qarinus. Peculiar then, that this letter had arrived so speedily -- and the news of Dorian and Radonis’ affinitas even faster, by the sound of things. Was there a Pavus spy in the Senate? Or had one of the Magisters’ run to the elder Pavus immediately after the session had ended?  _ It does not matter _ , Radonis thinks,  _ But it must be attended to as soon as possible. And in the best possible style. Wait until Dorian arrives, and then see what he has heard. _

The morning waxes on. Radonis loses himself in the other pieces of correspondence -- this has been his habit, to rise with the sun and deal with correspondence as he sips the watered plum wine, which is all his stomach will tolerate so early. Then, at mid morning, he receives his advisors; those of the Magisterium first, then the Publicanum. There are record-keepers, census-takers, taxation officials -- many and more take up his time. Radonis listens carefully, asks questions in his soft voice, Scintilla sleeping on his lap. Abruptly at noon, the door to his meeting chamber opens, and Radonis sees Dorian enter, unsmiling. He frowns slightly, then rises, careful to scoop Scintilla up first before she makes a nuisance of herself with her claws.

“That is enough for now,” he tells the Ambassadoria official in front of him, who looks vaguely put-upon by the interruption. “You may leave your report with my cleric. If there is anything further which we might discuss, please trust that we will be in contact.”

The dwarf bows low, still cross, but they make no remark as they stride from the room. Dorian’s eyebrow quirks slightly as the dwarf pushes past him. Then he looks up at Radonis, and says, “You needn’t have stopped on my account.”

 

He looks very pale -- almost sick. Radonis nods, his own expression growing serious. He glances at the slaves at the door and commands, “Leave us.”

They bow and retreat, closing the doors behind themselves. For a while, Radonis studies Dorian, but Dorian will not meet his eye. This state of detente lasts for a few minutes, the silence between them growing, until suddenly, Dorian looks at Radonis and asks viciously, “So? You must have heard from them by now. Maker knows I have.”

Radonis nods. “I have received a message from House Pavus, if that is what you mean.”

“Of  _ course _ it’s what I mean!” Dorian hisses, then seems to recall himself. “My apologies, Archon. I am… just…”

“Dorian, pull yourself together,” Radonis says. He does not raise his voice, but his tone is all steel. 

Dorian is silent, and seems to Radonis as if he is sulking. Radonis bites the inside of his cheek, trying to keep his expression neutral. Finally, he sighs and shakes his head. “Petulance is hardly becoming, Ambassador.”

“You keep telling me that — that things I do are _not becoming_ of me. It’s beyond irritating. You are the one who couldn’t control himself yesterday, and left me completely unprepared for your announcement! _Summersend_ , Archon — a full six weeks hence! So please, do not treat me as if I am a child, Radonis. I am _not_ being _petulant_...” Dorian says, then catches his breath and barks a laugh. It sounds to Radonis almost hysterical. “Which is exactly what I _would_ say. Archon…” He sighs, “Two apologies in the space of a moment. That really is unbecoming.” 

Radonis waves his hand. Outwardly, he is calm; but inside, his heart races and his mind reels.  _ Radonis, Radonis _ , he hears it again and again — his name in Dorian’s voice.  _ Maker of All,  _ he thinks, fear brushing its clammy hand over his neck, his chest, racing its fingers down his spine,  _ What is this? What does this mean? What has happened to him since last night?  _

 

If Dorian has noticed any external trace of this line of thought, he doesn’t react. Instead, he holds an identical envelope out to Radonis with a disgusted expression. “I received my  _ little note _ from my  _ beloved family _ last night, almost as soon as I came into the apartment. Would you like to read it? You can, if you wish.”

Radonis considers. “First of all, have you eaten? You look ill.”

“Petulant and sickly,” Dorian harrumphs, “What a combination. No, I have not eaten. I can’t bear the thought of it. Read this ridiculous missive.”

 

He pulls a square of parchment from the envelope and hands it to Radonis, who unfolds it gently as he turns and walks slowly to his desk. The hand is familiar, but the tone is very different:

 

> Dorian — 
> 
> This rumour you have created or farce you are playing is absolutely inappropriate. You call not only the honour of our house, but the honour of the Archon himself into disrepute with your antics. Have you no shame? Your father is utterly mortified, and in his present state, it would surprise me not a whit if he went to his grave because of this. Let your conscience guide you, Dorian, and visit to dispel these awful rumours at the nearest possible juncture.
> 
> — Mother

 

Strangely, Radonis feels like laughing. The tone is so shrill, and when compared with the fawning language of the letter he received this morning, it almost beggars belief. He takes a deep breath and sighs it out, then turns to face Dorian. “Well? What would you like to do?”

Dorian frowns for a moment, then snorts and waves a hand. “Honestly? I don’t know.”

“Of course.” Radonis smiles, seating himself behind his desk. He drops the letter onto the surface of it, gestures to Dorian to sit in the one of the chairs before him, and tents his fingers. “Well, there are options, though I hardly think we should consider assassination. After the lecture you gave me me on the nature of an ideal romantic relationship, murdering one’s potential mother-in-law doesn’t seem an entirely appropriate course of action.”

Dorian tsks and rolls his eyes, folding his hands together in his lap. There is a long silence, then Dorian says quietly, “Rather a moot point at this stage, I’m afraid. My father is dying.”

 

Radonis waits, rather appalled at his own poorly-timed joke. After a short pause, Dorian continues: “There was actually an attempt on his life about two years ago. He has never fully recovered from it -- it was at the estate in Qarinus. Mother refuses to return, insisting the city is safer. Which is fine, and it undoubtedly  _ is _ , but…” He laughs ruefully. “It makes for a rather claustrophobic familial situation, I’m afraid.”

“I understand, and I apologise for the entirely callous tone of my remarks beforehand,” Radonis tells him quietly. “Might I express a course of action?”

Slowly, Dorian nods. 

Radonis takes a deep breath, smiles slightly, and asks, “Is your father able to move about the city without a great deal of discomfort?”

Dorian shakes his head, looking slightly puzzled. 

Radonis purses his lips, then says, “Then we will pay them a visit. It stands to reason — the letter I received from the person I now know is your mother…” Dorian looks appalled, but Radonis keeps speaking, “...intimated that your parents require certain  _ assurances _ that we haven’t entered into affinitas lightly.” Radonis smirks, and shrugs his shoulders slightly, amused.

Dorian grits his teeth. “Maker,” he sighs, “Are you sure?”

“Of course,” Radonis murmurs, a smile in his voice. “I am prepared to  _ assure _ them by quite a hefty sum, if I must.”

 

The expression on Dorian’s face curdles. “She didn’t…” he says, sounding revolted. 

Radonis chuckles softly. “Not in so many words. But this  _ is _ how affinitas goes… the exchange of property between families. You were in affinitas at one time — do you not remember?”

Dorian shakes his head. “No,” he says softly, “I never paid much attention to the arrangements.”

“Ah,” Radonis says, and then can think of no more to say. There is a long pause, then he smiles tightly at Dorian, who curls his lip and says nothing. Finally, Radonis sighs. 

“Well. Shall I write to them, secure a convenient location and time? It must be done in the presence of witnesses, for both my own parents are deceased.”

 

Something in Dorian’s face flickers, and he rounds on Radonis suddenly. “How can you be so  _ calm _ about this?” he asks. “ _ I _ should be the master of my own fate — I am of age, I have seen things,  _ done _ things, that half the Imperium can only dream of, guess at. Why is it that they  _ insist _ , after everything they have done to me… that I somehow  _ owe _ them this? I… I can’t…”

Quickly, Radonis rises, circles his desk and walks toward Dorian, who has his hand on the centre of his chest, his shoulders tense, his breathing heavy. “Dorian,” he says, reaching out a hand to take the other man by his elbow gently. “Dorian. Please, will you sit? Perhaps take some water?”

Dorian nods and allows himself to be marshalled to a nearby couch. He perches on the edge of the blood-red upholstery, fists on his knees. Radonis stands next to him for a moment, then returns to his desk and rings a small silver bell.

Immediately, a slave appears, and Radonis tells him to bring water with lemon. The slave nods and disappears. Radonis turns to observe Dorian again. There he sits, looking at his hands, now with the fingers laced together on his lap. He looks very tired. Radonis frowns slightly, then crosses the room once more, walking slowly. When he reaches Dorian, he hesitates, then awkwardly bends, going to his knees to sit on the floor at Dorian’s knee. 

 

Although they’re sitting very close to one another, Dorian won’t look at him — he continues to gaze at his hands. Eventually, Radonis clears his throat softly, and speaks. 

“I apologise,” he repeats. “I feel as if I have been… rather condescending to you. I know some of your exploits in the South, of course… but really, all I know is rumour, and your public face. I know very little of the situation with your family — there were the rumours that your father was involved in blood magic… but frankly,” he snorts and rolls his eyes. “I hear rumours like that about every single one of them. What magister has not dabbled in the forbidden arts, succumbed to curiosity?”

Dorian looks at him then, and sneers. “I haven’t,” he says fiercely. “I would  _ never _ .”

Radonis smiles in disbelief, narrowing his eyes; Dorian shakes his head and looks away. It is a gesture of defeat, disgusted defeat, and Radonis purses his lips and inclines his head.

“Forgive me for asking, but…  _ why _ ? You are an intelligent man, and an ambitious one. Certainly, it is illegal, but…”

“Blood magic,” Dorian murmurs, and then is silent for a long time. When he speaks next, he sounds so bitter than Radonis sits a little straighter, his brow knitting in confusion. “In the Senate yesterday, Silvius spoke of the natural law, of the mos maiorum. All that really is, is about  _ control _ . What gives anyone the right to control another person’s destiny? We, the Altus class, I mean, should guide through right action, not through fear.” He sniffs quietly, then sighs. “I adored my father, when I was young. He told me that to use blood magic is the resort of weakness. And yet, when I slipped beyond his control, he succumbed to that weakness — when I refused to marry my betrothed, he tried to use blood magic on me, to wrest me to his will.”

Dorian’s voice shakes, and Radonis watches his throat work as he swallows hard. “Blood magic… another open secret of the Altii. Doesn’t it make you tired, Archon? To keep all these secrets, having to lie all the time? Maker… I’m so tired of this. I loved my father; I love him still, and Mother… but I’ll never forgive them for what they tried to do to me. I am not a pawn to be shifted about on a chessboard; I demand the right to live with the consequences of my choices.”

 

Silence in the room, then Radonis hears the door open and close quietly, and the faint slosh-and-clink of chilled water being poured. “That is fine,” he says, without turning around, and the noise ceases immediately, “We are not to be disturbed.”

“Yes, Archon,” the slave murmurs, and again, there is the soft shuffle of feet before the slave departs. 

“The consequences of your actions,” Radonis mutters. He sighs, bites the inside of his lip, and looks up from Dorian’s interlaced fingers to his face. Each plane, every line, the beautiful shadows underneath his eye where the light falls through his lashes. Radonis catches his breath. And the silence goes on and on, interminable it seems, until Radonis does the only thing that seems to be right in this moment; he leans forward slightly, and kisses Dorian softly on the edge of his mouth.

 

The reaction is profound and immediate. Dorian inhales sharply, his eyes flying wide as he jerks away from Radonis, hands moving off his lap, going to the sofa as if he will push himself up and away. The expression on his face is alarmed, and Radonis’ heart sinks. He clenches his jaw, looking away from Dorian, lifting his chin, tension running through his body. His magic responds to it; he can feel it under the skin of his fingers, in the pit of his stomach, arcing and leaping in his head, his spine, right down to his toes. 

They sit, very still, for a moment, until finally, Dorian gets up. He pushes past Radonis in his haste, then, as Radonis turns slightly to look at him, he stops and turns as well, staring at him. “How… I…” Dorian begins, and then his mouth works silently for a moment, before he looks away. 

Radonis swallows. It’s too late to take back the gesture now; a gesture so phenomenally mis-timed, so incredibly inappropriate, but true in the moment — perhaps one of the few true things he has ever done. But his chest feels constricted; he tries to take a breath and can only manage a short gasp. The sound makes Dorian look at him; he scowls, swallows, and folds his arms tightly before looking away again, his frown visible in profile. 

The silence grows. Radonis’ knees ache, but still he cannot move, trapped in this moment. Finally, Dorian sighs and unfolds his arms. “What on earth provoked that, Archon?”

The feeling of tightness in Radonis’ chest alleviates a little, and he glances up, worriedly, at Dorian, who still will not look at him. “I am a fool,” he murmurs, “I can only apologise. Please, Ambassador, let us move past this.”

Dorian’s frown deepens. “And why would I want us to do that?” he mutters, twisting at the waist, finally turning to stare at Radonis. The look on his face is strange, eyes flashing; Radonis can only assume that Dorian is more angry than he has ever seen him. He grits his teeth, puts a hand out and rests it on the edge of the sofa, meaning to use the leverage to push himself into a standing position once more.  _ He will use your idiocy to his advantage _ , part of his mind chastises him _ , of course he will. And now… _

In two rapid paces, Dorian is beside him; another moment sees him kneeling on the floor facing Radonis, a mere breath away. “You are not a fool,” he mutters, and one hand comes out, up; Dorian hesitates a moment, then cups Radonis’ cheek, gently, his palm warm and soft against Radonis’ skin. The magic in him lifts and reaches out to that which is in Dorian; Radonis feels his lips part, his eyes go to Dorian’s mouth. “I do not want us to move past this,” Dorian tells him, “I want us to go  _ beyond.  _ Let us stop talking in half-truths and rumours, Radonis. Can we do that, do you think?”

Wordlessly, Radonis nods. 

Dorian smiles, feels for Radonis’ hand with his opposite, and when he finds it, guides it gently forward until it rests on his waist. “And if I tell you the truth about what I feel, will it frighten you?”

“I do not care if it does,” Radonis mutters. “I will weather it.”

Dorian’s nostrils flare a little, and he smiles gently, then licks his bottom lip. “Well then. I do not feel the same way about you as when we began. I… have entertained, more than once, the idea that I might be… rather enamoured of you. I thought, at least initially, that… that perhaps this was… some kind of hero worship, pathetic as that sounds. But… now…” Dorian swallows hard — Radonis hears his throat work — and hesitates. He recovers quickly, however, and asks, “Is that… is it something that you might… feel similarly?”

Silently, Radonis nods. 

Dorian repeats the gesture, staring at him, then his brow creases in concern. “Then… I have to ask. Have you ever practiced blood magic?”

 

It unfolds slowly, delicately, unfurling inside him — the feeling of something lost while it is still not yet won. It seems to touch all his limbs, growing inside him; Dorian watches him carefully, then seems to realise what the answer is and pulls his hands away. 

“Dorian,” Radonis says, his voice choked. “I did what I had to do…”

“Did you?” Dorian asks, then sighs. 

Radonis shakes his head, frowning. A thought occurs to him, and he grits his teeth, trying to suppress the desire to speak. But finally, he must succumb to it, and says, “Yes. I did. Davan was weakening the entire country, he was under the influence of Titus, and it was obvious that my time had come. Until then, I had merely toyed with the idea of the forbidden school; studied in secret, wrought several limited experiments to protect myself and… and those I cared for. So yes, I used blood magic — but I never  _ practiced _ it. It was utilised as a means to an end… much as your association with the Inquisition has been.” He clenches his jaw and says bitterly, “As our association has been up to this point. A means to an end. You can couch it in whichever terms you like, but there is little difference as far as I can see. So tell me, Ambassador: is it lonely? Living on this moral high-ground you’ve carved for yourself?”

 

Dorian’s nostrils flare, and his eyes blaze. He says nothing for what feels like a long time; indeed, they sit on the floor, staring at each other, for so long that Radonis fears he will not be able to rise without assistance.  _ How mortifying _ , he thinks, and as if he has sensed his discomfort, Dorian’s expression softens, and he sighs again and looks away.

“You know,” he says quietly, “It is. Very lonely. And… and, I suppose, I understand if I’ve upset you, if I will upset you further with my next question… but please, if there is any… chance, for something between us…” He takes a deep breath and seems to steady himself, to brace for something, then blurts, “Do you still do it? Blood magic?”

Radonis shakes his head. Dorian’s eyes widen and his lips part, his brow creasing. They sit still, caught again, until cautiously, Dorian reaches out a hand, palm out, and asks softly, “May I?”

Slowly, Radonis nods. Dorian places the hand gently against his cheek; his palm is soft, though with a line of rigid callous which marks how he handles his staff. His hand shifts slowly, stroking along Radonis’ cheek, going to the back of his neck, before beginning to pull him gently forward.

And Dorian’s lips part — his eyes flutter closed as Radonis watches. He is so beautiful; this is everything Radonis has wanted, for, oh, such a long time, it seems. He desperately wants to reach out, pull Dorian against him, feel their lips come together, touch Dorian, listen to the sounds he makes, sounds of pleasure, it would be so… so…

Radonis hitches an inward breath, and abruptly turns his head.  _ What is wrong with you? _ a part of his mind screams at him,  _ Kiss him! He wants you, he wants you too! _

But he knows in his heart that this is not the right time — that there is an undercurrent here which must be addressed, brought out into the open before it causes too much damage to be retrieved. So Radonis swallows, lifts his chin and asks, “Ambassador, would you mind helping me to stand?”

Dorian is silent for a moment, then withdraws his hand from Radonis’ neck. Radonis refuses to look at him in the long silence which follows, and eventually Dorian replies stiffly, “Certainly, Archon.”

 

Dorian rises, then assists Radonis to rise also. His touch is gentle still, but now with the air of a kindly stranger. When he makes to move back, Radonis catches his eye, and smiles when Dorian is unable to hold back the resentful expression in his eyes.

“I did not mean to insult you,” Radonis begins softly, “But if this is to be in any way sustainable, I will not keep things from you, Dorian. Already, you mean far too much to me for that.”

Dorian frowns slightly, his mouth tight, his chin lowered. He is quiet for a time, then shrugs and mutters, “Go on.”

Radonis nods, then sighs. “I told you that I would weather whatever you told me about yourself, about your feelings. Can you do the same for me?”

Slowly, Dorian shifts and lifts his chin a little, then narrows his eyes at Radonis. “I… yes. Yes, I can,” he says softly, then cocks his head curiously, waiting for Radonis to continue. Again, Radonis sighs.

“I do not know how to feel about our association. It has begun in such a poisonous fashion, but has such noble goals… which I fear I taint with my growing affection for you. It confuses me, angers me, that I feel this way, though you told me at the beginning of our experiment that it was hideously complex, though it had an air of simplicity. And then… we both are ambitious men, and there are many things that I have done in my life that I fear you, with your bent for idealism, would not approve of. Certainly, I am not proud of everything that I have done in my rise to power; by turns I have been devious, and brutal — I have told terrible falsehoods in the name of my ambitions.”

Dorian nods, an eyebrow rising. Radonis shakes his head and shrugs, feeling miserable. “But Dorian, I am not lying now. Believe me when I say I am not  _ enamoured _ of you. I am not  _ desirous of your presence _ . I do not  _ hunger for you _ , or  _ wish you all good will. _ I feel all of those things, and more. I am impressed by your mental acuity; humbled by your desire to do what is right; immensely proud of your pride in, and your knowledge of, who you are. Not a moment goes by when I do not wish you by my side. Dorian… I…”

But here the words stop. Radonis stares mutely at Dorian, whose expression changes by the moment — frustration, chagrin, amusement, wonder. 

Eventually, he gives a small laugh and murmurs, “Say it. Please. Please try.”

 

And he can’t breathe. He can’t; he, Radonis, Archon of the Imperium, in this moment he cannot breathe, his chest feels so tight and he puts a hand to it, words in his throat, choking him.  _ Do it _ , he scolds himself,  _ he wants you to. Seize the moment; there is nothing to fear from him _ . Radonis feels his heartbeat quicken, then all of a sudden the entire world seems to open up as the words fly from him: “I… I think… I love you.”

Dorian inhales quickly, then smiles. The expression is so wonderful, so bright, that Radonis cannot help returning it. But all too quickly, he is consumed by the feeling of strangeness once more, and his expression shifts to one of worry. “You do not think that I seek to throw over everything we work for with this?”

Slowly, Dorian shakes his head, then suddenly laughs. “No. No, of course not. Do you feel that way about how I feel?”

“No. I feel… rather relieved, actually,” Radonis admits, then sighs. “I fear you think me rather a fool.”

Dorian’s smile softens. “No,” he says, and takes a step forward, then another, breaching the distance between them. “No, I do not. How many more times must I reassure you?  I am so glad… so very glad that we can go beyond… that we can show what it means truly to love and be loved.”

“Yes,” Radonis whispers. He swallows, then interlaces his fingers, bowing his head. “I feel…” he begins, then stops. Never has he felt so old, so vulnerable. He pauses, then feels Dorian approach him, the light touch of his hand upon Radonis’ elbow. The touch gives him strength. “I feel as if we are beginning anew. Dorian, will you join me in my quarters? Dine with me tonight. We can discuss how to proceed from here.”

  
  


Dorian nods, and Radonis watches, his heart still beating hard. There’s a quiet between them now, a sense of a calm after a tempest. Dorian’s hand moves on Radonis’ arm, and Radonis looks at him, sees the gentle smile. “That sounds wonderful,” Dorian murmurs. “When should I arrive?”

Radonis chuckles, “If it were truly up to me, I would say  _ don’t leave _ . But…” He sighs, then reaches out, puts his hands to Dorian’s waist and pulls him forward. “Perhaps at the eighth hour of the evening. Would that suit you?”

“Certainly,” Dorian says, his eyebrow raised, then sighs and looks away. “It will give me some time to subdue my parents.”

“Ah, Legatum mi,” Radonis smiles, “All you need do is return their correspondence, telling them something along the lines of  _ you will discuss it with your betrothed. _ ” He can’t help the slightly wicked expression which curls his lip when Dorian smiles. “That should be enough for this afternoon.”

“I agree,” Dorian says, “I have other things to do anyway…”

“Of course.” Radonis releases him, and steps away. “Come to me at eight?”

Dorian nods and smiles — it’s that coy, delightful smile, the one which is edged with just a small amount of flirtation. “Until then, Archon.” He sweeps into a low bow, making Radonis chuckle, then winks and turns, striding from the room. Radonis hears the door open and close, and takes a deep breath. He smiles, looking out the window, and wills night closer.


	7. Chapter 7

The moonlight shines silvery over the city, through the velvet air of the summer night. The great orb of Satina is hung, seemingly immovable, over the spires of the Grand Chantry, just cresting their points. Radonis watches a large moth make its way through the air, its flight path erratic, large wings audible in the silence which reigns this far above the city. 

Radonis takes a deep breath and sighs it out, trying to quell the nervous thrum of his heart. It feels… awful, actually, if he is being truthful. The anticipation is merciless, but he delights in it all the same. Slowly, he turns away from the window, moving back into the warm lamplight of his chambers, hands clasped before himself, then stops suddenly as there is the faint scuff of feet outside his door.

The sound stops, there is the low murmur of voices. Radonis exhales, willing himself not to rush to the mirror or to the window or to the door itself — part of his mind demands  _ movement _ , each sense is heightened with the pleasurable panic that he feels. And then the door swings open, and he is there.

 

Dorian smiles strangely, then averts his eyes from Radonis. He takes several steps into the room, into the light of the lamps as the door of Radonis’ chambers swings closed again. “Tevinter in aeternum, Archon,” he murmurs, then takes a sharp breath. His mouth opens once more as if to speak, but no words come.

_ What is this? _ wonders Radonis. He watches Dorian for a moment, then takes a cautious step forward, his fingers coming unbound from their tight clasp. After a moment’s more silence, Radonis licks his lip. “Dorian? Are you quite well?”

Slowly, Dorian nods, but says nothing. He looks concerned, terribly so, and Radonis can’t help it, he takes another step forward, his arms coming out, wanting to take Dorian in them, murmur comfort, but quite unsure how it will be tolerated. A disconcerting thought rings in his head — that for all their fine words earlier in the day, Dorian is now experiencing regret. 

Radonis’ heart sinks, and involuntarily, he shakes his head. Dorian must catch the motion of it, or feel something of what Radonis feels, because he looks up at the gesture and smiles again, that same strange smile. His lips part — there is another silence — then he closes his eyes and sighs. “I apologise.”

“Whatever for?” Radonis blurts, then closes his mouth quickly before more words can tumble out. His belly writhes, the hours of anticipation and the moments of tension taking their toll on him. Finally, he sighs as well, lowering his head and re-clasping his hands. “Dorian,” he says softly, trying to make his voice sound calm. “Whatever it is, please tell me. I can only help if I…”

He trails off when Dorian looks at him. The look is powerful, piercing, and Dorian almost seems to snarl before he states, “In a series of increasingly terse little missives, my parents have  _ invited _ us to meet them at their residence in the city tomorrow. They wish to discuss terms with you. Terms to… bring an end to this. I think.” Dorian seems to grind his teeth, and shakes his head in disgust.

 

Radonis’ mouth twists, and without further ado, he closes the distance between himself and Dorian. As he does, Dorian seems to wilt, the brittle energy with which he has clearly been holding himself together dissipating. “I…” he begins, then wordlessly opens his arms to Radonis, who steps into them, closing his own around Dorian’s shoulders. Silently, they hold each other for a moment, then Radonis lifts his hand and strokes Dorian’s hair. “Legatum mi,” he murmurs softly, “you need not apologise. This is none of your doing. At which hour do they expect us?”

“The tenth.” Dorian sighs, “Too early to arrive drunk.”

Radonis tuts, though now he is smiling fondly. Gently, he releases Dorian slightly in order to look down into his face. As Dorian looks up, Radonis brings one hand softly to his cheek, smoothing his thumb over the edge of Dorian’s lower lip. “You know,” he murmurs, “You frightened me. I thought you rued everything.”

Dorian frowns slightly, though he smiles as he does it. “I’m sorry, have we met, Archon? You should know by now — I never say a thing I do not mean.”

“I am obviously a slow learner, in that regard,” Radonis smiles. He looks at Dorian a moment longer, concerned, then his smile broadens. “Come. Will you eat?”

Dorian shrugs, looking dubious, then smirks. “I will certainly try.”

“Excellent,” Radonis says, and steps back, gesturing to a round table, set in an alcove where a large window affords a view over the Minrathous harbour. “Then let us try together.”

 

Dorian sighs and picks up a ripe peach, tearing it in two. One half he puts on the plate before him; the other, he brings to his mouth. Juice runs in a narrow, glistening rivulet down his wrist. He takes a bite, then chews, a contemplative expression on his face. Finally, he swallows and shrugs in answer to the statement Radonis had just made. “It isn’t that which I object to,” he says musingly. “I actually rather like a good ritual.”

Radonis chuckles, then gestures at Dorian’s hand. “I believe your peach is leaking.”

Dorian’s eyebrows rise, and he smirks. “Sounds like an euphemism,” he says, then turns the hand with the peach in it over, looking at his wrist. “Ah, it wasn’t,” he says, and brings it to his mouth once more — but this time, he licks at the juice, following the line that it’s left on his skin with his tongue. Instantly, Radonis is assailed by wordless, imagined sensations; the idea of the tender skin of Dorian’s wrist beneath his own lips and tongue, the feel of it, the taste of the juice, the smell of Dorian’s skin. He smiles slightly and Dorian returns it as he catches his eye. 

“What?” he asks, all feigned innocence. 

Radonis chuckles. “As if you didn’t know,” he murmurs, then rolls his eyes. “Legatum mi, you are such a coquet.”

Dorian laughs and takes another bite of the peach. He shrugs, his mouth full, then swallows. “My knowledge of Orlesian is scanty, but I’m fairly certain I’m not a coquet. Weren’t you listening when I told you I mean everything I say?”

“And do you mean everything you  _ don’t  _ say as well?”

“Sometimes,” Dorian purrs, smirking at Radonis, “Words are an unnecessary encumbrance.”Radonis laughs, picks up a grape on his own plate and puts it down again. He looks at it, thinking, then murmurs, “We should perhaps discuss that.”

“Oh dear,” Dorian says, laughter still in his voice, “That sounds ominous.”

“It is not meant to,” Radonis smiles, and looks up. “I only meant that I would like to be as honest with you as I can be.”

“How very reassuring,” Dorian tells him, a little bitingly, then frowns. “Well? Please don’t leave me in suspense.”

Radonis pauses, taking a moment longer to put his thoughts in order, then sighs. “You have said all along that you wish this relationship — even when it was merely for show — to go beyond expectations, into the ideal. And as we progress along this mysterious course, I find myself agreeing more and more with that statement. However...” Radonis pauses, uncertain of how to proceed. 

Dorian nods slowly, then cocks his head curiously. “Go on?”

“This may sound foolish to a man not yet past his fiftieth year,” Radonis murmurs, then averts his eyes back to his plate. Nervousness coils briefly in his gut, then he says, “I merely do not wish to disappoint you.”

Quickly, he glances up at Dorian, who frowns in confusion. He says nothing, clearly thinking, then shakes his head. “My apologies,” he says quietly, “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

But as soon as the words are out of his mouth, a look of sudden, surprised realisation comes over his features. Dorian’s mouth opens slightly, then he smiles softly and  _ tsks _ , shaking his head. “Archon,” he begins, then exhales. There’s a long, awkward silence, then Dorian looks away. “Archon… Radonis, I… I feel I must apologise as well. I feel as if you have misunderstood me, rather terribly, in fact, and it has caused you to become concerned over something which… in the scheme of things… really isn’t insurmountable.”

Silently, Radonis arches an eyebrow. Dorian looks at him, and a brief smile flashes over his face. “I am sure I don’t have to tell you how many various ways there are to  _ mount _ that particular issue. Oh…” He makes a face, wrinkling his nose, then shrugs, “I certainly didn’t mean to imply…”

“Dorian, we are men of the world.” Radonis waves his hand and grins, “Frankly, I’m rather shocked that you managed to get that far into this conversation without making some kind of joke…”

“Well, I merely didn’t want you to think that I thought you were…”

Radonis laughs and reaches over the table, taking Dorian’s empty hand in his own and squeezing it gently. “I am learning,” he says softly, “not to assume when it comes to you. In fact, I am learning so much, Dorian… truly, you have no idea how much I appreciate your company.”

“I assure you, your appreciation is returned,” Dorian tells him, and sighs happily, squeezing Radonis’ hand in return. He takes another bite of his peach, chews it and swallows, then looks at Radonis thoughtfully. “Is there any legitimate reason for your concern in this regard?” Quite suddenly, he barks a laugh, and Radonis stares at him, concerned. Dorian flaps his hand, “My apologies. I just rather shocked myself — asking the Archon if he’d ever experienced a lack of fortitude, it rather beggars belief.”

Radonis smiles and shrugs. “I admire it, though. You have such confidence, Dorian. With any other man, such a conversation would take much longer.”

“Ah, but Radonis…” Dorian leans forward and smirks. “I am not just  _ any other man. _ ”

“I know,” Radonis murmurs. His heart seems to skip a beat at the look on Dorian’s face, and he feels a deep want rise within him. Taking a short breath, he looks away and sighs. “To answer your question, no. I only… I suppose it is as I said — now that we have confessed our feelings, I…”  _ would give the world to see you happy _ , he thinks, and yet… yet…  _ It is too close;  too close to what you tried to say to Valarian, only to have it all fall down around you. _ Instead, he smiles, “I wish for the ideal. For us both. In all aspects of our relationship. That is all I meant.”

“Well…” Dorian narrows his eyes for a moment, then shrugs. “In terms of  _ the ideal _ , I meant more that it is something to strive toward, rather than something to achieve outright. I am not so much of an idealist that I believe that people have an inherent ability to achieve perfection first time around.” He shakes his head, as if in wonderment that such an idea was even possible. “No, not at all. I am a realist in that regard — people are fallible, very much so, and our physical limitations are part of that.”

Silence falls between them, then Radonis chuckles. “I must confess, this is… a strange conversation to be having.”

“Really?” Dorian asks, one eyebrow rising. He smiles. “I rather think it’s a  _ good _ conversation to be having.”

“Well… perhaps,” Radonis acquiesces. “I only meant that… for me at least… it’s unusual to do the emotional work of a relationship with someone I desire  _ before _ anything else.”

“Ah! So you  _ do  _ desire me then,” Dorian grins, and brings the rest of his peach to his mouth. He smirks at Radonis over it, then takes a bite, still grinning. Radonis rolls his eyes, though he returns the smile.

“Of course I do. How could I not? You possess everything I could ever have hoped for, physically and mentally. But there’s no need to be quite so insufferable about it,” he mutters and Dorian barks a short laugh, his mouth full. The silence hangs in the air for a short while, then Radonis clears his throat. “If I might return us to the topic…”

Dorian raises his eyebrows and nods — his mouth is still full. Radonis inclines his head, stroking his thumb over the back of Dorian’s hand. “There are larger issues at play here than just my own desires. The  _ mos maiorum _ dictates…”

Dorian makes a frustrated noise and swallows his mouthful. “Oh,  _ hang _ the  _ maiorum _ ,” he states, shaking his head as he pulls his hand from Radonis’ grip. “If I wanted to be preached to by a musty old set of documents, I’d have become a lay brother in the Chantry.”

Radonis takes a breath and looks at Dorian, who rolls his eyes. “Nevertheless,” Radonis continues slowly, “We seem to have to rather conflicting versions of this  _ ideal _ of which you speak. There’s what we ourselves consider to be ideal… and then there are the ideals of society at large.”

Dorian grimaces and is silent for a moment, then his shoulders sag. “Not only that,” he mutters, “But the ideals of people such as my parents. The… burden of expectation.” He shakes his head and scowls. “Tomorrow cannot come soon enough.”

Radonis nods. There is silence for a while more, then Radonis sighs. “Dorian,” he says slowly, “I am not prepared to give you up. I do not know how this will end… but I know that you mean a great deal to me. I know, too, that there is no-one who could convince me that we are not good for each other. If your parents will not see that, if they cannot see that not only do we make each other happy, but our alliance brings them great privilege as well…” Radonis shrugs and raises his eyebrows. Dorian smiles slightly, and puts the stone of his peach on his plate.

 

“Thank you,” he says quietly. “It means so much to me… to hear you say that.” A small, rather rueful smile crosses his features, and he looks at Radonis. “Though I feel you’re rather overestimating the value the Altii place on happiness.”

“Believe me, I know it,” Radonis murmurs. Then he smiles craftily, “Happiness  _ and _ economic stability… and power, into the bargain… I do not think that your parents have much to complain about.”

“You don’t know them,” Dorian says, then looks at Radonis, a smile on his lips, his eyes full of feeling. He shifts, moving his chair back, then rises. Radonis watches him as he circles the small table at which they sit, the remnants of their meal before them. Slowly, he walks toward Radonis — and as he watches Dorian move, a thrill races along every nerve. He really is beautiful. And with that look on his face… Radonis looks at him, suddenly concerned. He raises his eyebrows and Dorian smirks, kneeling at his side. 

“Radonis,” he says, his voice low, “You are  _ my _ ideal. I never could have dreamed I would find someone like you.”

For an instant, Radonis is too stunned to speak. Then he smiles slightly, even as he frowns. “Dorian…” he begins, then sighs. There’s quiet in the room again, and he shakes his head. Dorian’s smile falters and he cocks his head. 

“What is it, Amatus?” he asks, his voice concerned. Radonis purses his lips, considers briefly, then takes a deep breath.

“Dorian… There is something in this… something in  _ me _ perhaps… which cannot help but be suspicious of all this. Still, after everything we have said to one another. It seems… almost too good to be true. Because you are my ideal as well — I  _ never _ , in my whole life, considered that one day someone I loved in all their aspects would love me. And…”

“Given the way that we began,” Dorian interjects, “Your suspicions are natural. But… what can I do to convince you that what I feel is real?” His mouth twists, brow furrowing. 

Radonis looks away briefly, then shakes his head. “Nothing,” he murmurs. “Walls take time to dismantle — cities take time to rebuild.” 

He hears a small huff of breath from Dorian, and looks at him. There is a small, sad smile on his lips, and as Radonis watches, Dorian catches his eye — the smile widens a little, but becomes more sad, more strange. His throat works, and Dorian drops his gaze, before putting his hand over Radonis’.

“I know,” he says quietly. “And I will give you time. When I was young, I was always rushing, always fearful that if I waited, if I considered, then the impetus would be lost. You saw that in me, didn’t you?”

Radonis nods. Dorian’s eyebrow rises and he shrugs. “There is no impetus here… no urgency but for the wonder of discovering more about you every day.  _ I _ am learning too, Radonis. And if sometimes I falter, if sometimes I push too hard or want too much… will you tell me? Please? Because that is my ideal — that we have the luxury to do that, to grow together.”

Once more, Radonis nods. “Of course,” he murmurs, then swallows hard. A smile flickers over Dorian’s face — and truly, it does light up his whole face. And such a nuanced smile, full of wonder, and light, and wickedness. Radonis laughs, the sound of it gentle, squeezing Dorian’s hand. The moment hangs around them, and Dorian’s smile fades, becomes deeper, darker; his eyes fall closed and he takes a long, slow breath. 

“Radonis,” he murmurs, then the smile is back, just a curl of his lip. Radonis blinks twice, and leans forward slightly.

“Yes, Legatum mi?” he breathes, heart beginning to race, visions in his head, remembered sensations. “What is it?”

That smile again, then Dorian exhales. “My knees are killing me.”

Radonis laughs, partly in shock at the joke, partly because… in all of this, Dorian’s beauty, his sharp wit, his emotional prowess, even after all of this, he is  _ funny as well _ . Dorian joins Radonis’ laughter, and makes to rise — Radonis reaches out, supporting him and getting to his own feet.

 

When the motion is complete, they stand together, bodies pressed against one another. Dorian looks up, into Radonis’ face, his eyes full of soft, tender hope. “Amatus,” he says gently, and a look of concern creases his brow for a moment, “What will we tell them tomorrow?”

Radonis smiles slightly, and puts his hand to Dorian’s cheek. “I will assure them that, for myself, there is no-one I would rather have by my side. If I have gleaned anything from the way in which you have spoken of them, they will object on two fronts — shame and legacy. There will no doubt be a public scandal of some sort, and the perceived ill-repute that this brings your name into will trouble them. That, and the fact that there will be no children of the union. You are an only child, am I correct?”

Dorian nods, and Radonis inclines his head, mouth thinning. “Then it will be your father’s concern that his name be continued, or the House will die with you. Have you given any thought to how we might assuage this particular concern?”

“Under the present circumstances, there is only one possible solution,” Dorian mutters. He lowers his gaze, shakes his head and stiffens slightly. “But… I… I could not countenance it. And the only other recourse is if the legal changes the Lucernii seek come through the Senate.” He snorts, “I do not have much faith in that.”

Radonis makes a sound of assent. “I feel it is enough to begin the conversation… Maker knows, your parents will feel as if we have not thought through the options and possibilities anyway, no matter how many answers we prepare tonight.” His brow furrows. “Legatum mi, the hour is late. If… I may suggest it, would you care to use the apartment?”

Dorian sighs. “I am certain that it will not matter where I lay my head — I will not sleep tonight.” He raises his eyes, grinning, “Though I would rather it was the thought of you in the next room than the trepidation of what lies before us that was keeping me awake.”

Though Dorian’s expression tries for wickedness, Radonis does not quite believe it. There’s too much sadness in his eyes. However, Radonis nods, smiling slightly, and reaches toward the bell to call the slave. 

As he does, Dorian arrests his hand, the grip firm, warm and gentle. “Amatus,” he breathes, “Do not disturb anyone. As you say, the hour is late.”

Radonis narrows his eyes, but inclines his head. “As you wish,” he mutters, heart leaping. Dorian smiles gently, releases his wrist, and steps back. For a moment, Radonis regards him, and then turns, beckoning Dorian to follow.

 

The suite is prepared; its lamps burning low, causing the plush velvet of the upholstery and gilded letters of the books on the shelves to glimmer softly. Dorian exhales and turns, standing in the doorway. He smiles, his lips part slightly, and he looks at Radonis. “Come in,” he says, his voice low. “Please. Just for a little while.”

_ Just for a little while _ . His voice, those words… they send a sweet shiver through Radonis, and a bright flame of desire kindles once more, deep within him. The light from the lamps plays on Dorian’s hair, and as Radonis remains silent, caught, Dorian reaches out and takes hold of Radonis’ hand.

With the touch, Radonis finds his voice. “No, Dorian,” he mutters, “Not tonight. A little while is soon spent, and we have much to do tomorrow. Sleep instead.”

“Amatus,” Dorian says, and it seems to Radonis as if his voice runs all through his body; Maker, he wants him, wishes for nothing more than to take Dorian in his arms and kiss him, to remove his clothes slowly, to show him how much he loves him. But instead, Radonis shakes his head and smiles.

“The ideal,” he tells Dorian sadly, and pulls his hand from Dorian’s gently. “Soon we will have our whole lives, Legatum mi.”

 

He does not wait to see Dorian’s expression; does not trust himself not to be swayed by it. So instead he turns away, toward his own quarters, his footsteps heavy. Is this not the proper way to proceed? Certainly, this  _ is _ how affinitas is supposed to go, or at least an approximation of it. In the traditional way, the heads of the families of both parties would have signed an agreement — the female of the union would have an apartment at her new betrothed’s prepared for her, but a sister or other female relative would accompany her. A partial dowry would already have changed hands. Radonis scowls, nods at the slave at his own door, who opens it for him. Radonis enters, still lost in thought. Scintilla mews at his feet, and he bends, scooping her up, the soft white fur against his cheek. She squirms in his arms and Radonis huffs a laugh, then allows her to leap away, back down to the floor.

So why is he clinging to this? There are several points at which they might have acted more in accordance with the mos maiorum. Radonis nods to the slaves approaching him, holds out his arms and allows them to begin divesting him of his robes. They know better than to speak — both the chamber slaves are old, well aware of Radonis’ preference for silence. As the slaves untie knots and move fabric away from his body, Radonis tries to put it out of his mind. The crux of it is that this  _ isn’t  _ the usual way of things… it’s  _ better _ . To have two parties that have chosen each other, for a variety of reasons — a shared emotional connection, a deep intellectual respect and…  _ out with it _ , Radonis thinks, and almost smiles _ , a physical attraction too. Do not deny your excitement when he confessed it. _

It’s true, of course. And while he still wonders what Dorian sees in him physically, there is no denying that Dorian himself is utterly compelling. Images flutter around Radonis’ mind, half-imagined sensations of strong hands, sweat and spit, the heat between bodies. He drags a shaking breath into his lungs, hesitates, then murmurs, “That will be all.”

One slave is on the floor at his feet, the other behind him. Radonis looks down, catches the eyes of the man in front, who for a moment looks puzzled, then nods quickly. He rises, and Radonis hears him and his fellow walk quickly to the door. It opens, closes, then all the night is silence around him.

And through the silence, Radonis feels it — feels  _ him _ . So close, closer than ever before. The wall between them which separates their suites, it feels paper-thin and, for a moment, Radonis is sure that if he approaches it, if he leans against it, somehow, Dorian will know.  _ Ridiculous _ , he scoffs at himself, but the notion persists. 

Slowly, very slowly, Radonis turns. The night is still warm; the breeze against his bare chest feels clammy and carries the scent of some night-flowering plant that Radonis does not recognise. The light linen trousers he still wears cling slightly to his legs, but his feet are bare against the cool marble floor. Everything around him is still, so still and silent, but Dorian’s presence there through the wall… it shines like a beacon to Radonis, light in the darkness. His mouth opens, Dorian’s name on his lips, then he exhales. This  _ is _ ridiculous. Dorian, more likely than not, is already in bed, asleep most likely — Radonis would disturb him if he…

He blinks, amazed at himself.  _ Wait _ , the word echoes in his head, and he looks down at his hands. Here, he has the needs of the people — strong leadership, pride in their nation, a place to stand when all else is against them. But here… here he has his own desires, the desires of one man, a man who has been alone almost all of his life, always outside. Radonis weighs those two very different sets of needs; and he sets his jaw and turns away from the wall which adjoins their suites. Without him feeling it, his fingers curl into fists as he walks away, back toward his bed.

But halfway across the room, he stops. The pull of this, the strength of his desire, it is  _ too  _ strong.  _ No _ , Radonis tells himself, and takes a deep breath, already turning back toward the wall. For an instant, his nails bite deep into the flesh of his palms; then his fingers slacken, and he moves quickly, hands coming out, breath shallow. His lips part, and his nostrils flare slightly — that smell, the vernal, bright smell of the flowers, it’s in his nose, all through his head, and he sighs, closing his eyes.  _ Dorian _ , he thinks, and he reaches out further, palms against the wall, the marble smooth under his hands.

He is beginning to feel lost to it, outside himself. The night around him seems alive, brilliant with energy. Radonis draws a shuddering breath and leans forward, resting his forehead against the cool stone.  _ What does it matter,  _ he asks himself,  _ what does one night matter? Go to him — he wants you to. Go to him and… _

 

_ What? _ Yes, Dorian wants him, perhaps almost as badly as Radonis wants him… but  _ why _ ? This began as an exercise in power and that’s what he’s doing, of course, Dorian is accruing power, maneuvering his way through Tevinter political life, assuring the continued existence of his little enterprise, the Lucernii… Ah, this is madness! Radonis bites his lip, eyes still closed, tension singing through his body. Great loops and wheels of magic potential seem to swirl behind his eyes; he can feel the shiver and ache of it in his fingers, feel the burning cold of the elements at his disposal. And still, the thoughts go around and around in his head — Dorian loves him for their shared interests, Dorian is only interested in power, no, no, he loves Radonis, any fool could see it, but men as beautiful as Dorian tend to be fickle in their attention and what could Radonis possibly do to hold it? This relationship is a jape to him, it’s all just a jest and a way to…

“Stop,” Radonis whispers to the silent room. With this one word, the internal debate drops away, and once more, all Radonis feels is the cool stone under his hands and feet, against his forehead. A light breeze shifts the still air of his apartment, and Radonis sighs, smiling slightly.  _ There is one fact which remains unexamined _ , he tells himself,  _ and that is that you have both been lonely. Whatever the reason that the fates propelled you together — look to that. Is that not something? That, together, you might alleviate each other’s loneliness? That you might show others in this great nation that they need not be alone? _

Radonis’ smile grows. Slowly, he takes his hands from the wall in front of him, moving away from it as he does. His eyes open, and for a moment, he looks at the pale marble, the only thing between himself and Dorian. Without meaning to, without examining the gesture, Radonis raises one hand to his chest, placing it above his heart — with the other, he reaches out, towards the wall once more. “Sleep well, Legatum mi,” he whispers and, dropping both his hands to his sides, turns back toward his own bed.


	8. Chapter 8

A light touch on his shoulder, and Radonis looks up from the pile of correspondence on his desk. Dorian smiles down at him, and tucks his hand once more into his sleeve. “Good morning, Amatus,” he mutters, and his smile turns rather ironic. “I do hope you  _ slept _ well.”

Radonis chuckles. “Not at all. I hope that you do not plan to use those apartments often, Legatum mi. It was rather torturous.”

Dorian makes an astonished noise and puts a hand against his chest. Radonis’ smile fades as he looks at Dorian — in the few moments before Dorian speaks, Radonis can tell he is exhausted. “Torturous!” Dorian laughs, and shakes his head. “I lay awake half the night expecting your desperate presence, and you’re telling me you lay there in agony, beside yourself and yet unwilling to walk the few paces to my chamber door!” His smile turns wicked, and he leans down close to Radonis’ ear to murmur, “Do you  _ enjoy _ suffering, Archon?” 

 

This bright, brittle thing — this act — it hurts Radonis to see it. For a moment, he wants to catch hold of Dorian’s hand, tell him everything, that his uncertainty kept him from Dorian’s chamber last night, that he is struggling still to reconcile the fact of their relationship to himself, that for all their professed sincerity, the words they had said remain only words to some mistrustful part of him. But instead, he bites his tongue and smiles. “Perhaps I do,” he sighs. Dorian straightens, steps away from his desk, and Radonis rises. “Come,” he says, “You would do well to eat before our appointment, if you can.”

“You know you don’t have to act the part of father,” Dorian says, smirking tensely. He pauses, then purrs, “Unless you want to.”

Radonis lowers his chin and stops. Silently, he arches an eyebrow at Dorian, who exhales and shrugs. “Ugh, Radonis… I’m not going to apologise,” he says crossly. “I meant what I said last night, you know — hang the maiorum. If I want you, and you want me, then…”

“Then we may as well make you my concubine, if you would throw it all away because you want…  _ that _ . Don’t try and goad me into it.” Radonis interrupts, his voice low. “The maiorum may not be a law, but Silvius was right about one thing — it is the foundation of our society. I…”

“It is the foundation of everything  _ wrong _ with our society!” Dorian cries suddenly, throwing his arm wide. “It means that I can never be happy! It means that  _ you _ can’t be… it means that we have to pretend  _ at every turn _ ! And it means that there’s nothing I can do to stop anyone who wants to try and do what my father tried to do to me again, or to anyone else!”

“And you think that by flaunting the maiorum that we will change it?” Radonis asks coldly. “Your father did what he did out of desperation, I am sure. You are a stubborn man, Dorian — too stubborn to see that blood magic is as much part of our heritage as the privileges which you enjoy as a member of the Altus class. What would you have me do? If I move against those Altii who are known blood mages, I become a hypocrite of the highest order…”

“You…” Dorian begins, then grits his teeth and turns his face aside. His hands are in fists; his shoulders tense. Radonis waits, staring at Dorian, who seems content to let his words hang in the air. Slowly, Radonis takes a breath, then whispers, “Out with it.”

Silently, Dorian shakes his head. His expression of anger softens, slackening to a blank neutrality. Finally, he sighs, and looks at Radonis. “You are right,” he says, then glances away again.

_ That is not what he meant to say _ , Radonis thinks; he opens his mouth to say it, but at the last moment something stops him. What is it? He doesn’t know. So instead he sighs, inclines his head and tells Dorian, “It is difficult to see, I know. But Dorian… I  _ am  _ right. This position that I hold — the position that you hold, as a member of the Magisterium — it dictates our behavior to a certain point. You have said yourself that we must inspire through right example, rather than control through fear. And while I agree with that in part, if you wish me to destroy the mos maiorum, I…”

But Dorian is shaking his head. Radonis stops talking, waiting for Dorian to clarify his thoughts; all he receives is silence. So he waits until Dorian mutters, “I can’t espouse anarchy, as much as I wish for — and work toward — a change to the structures which hold us all prisoner. But it doesn’t matter. Let us not speak further on it.”

It feels like giving up. They watch each other for a time, and Radonis becomes conscious that he feels a little heartsick. Briefly, he examines his actions and his words, and though they have been harsh, he feels as if they have been true. Should he apologise for the truth? Is that what Dorian would want?

He doesn’t know. Radonis swallows, watching Dorian, feeling himself watched and examined — judged — in turn. It angers him, and this concerns him, which makes him feel ill-at-ease and angry all over again. “Certainly,” Radonis says, more to break the silence than anything, and folds his hands together. “We have time for you to eat if you wish; I regret that I have correspondence which requires my attention.” He waits for Dorian’s reply, then inclines his head. “Dorian?”

Dorian smiles. “My apologies,” he murmurs, “Just a little distracted. I would like to eat.”

“Certainly,” Radonis says, careful to keep his expression neutral. He raises his hand, but before he has even gestured to the slave, he is hurrying over. Radonis explains briefly that the Ambassador will need attendance in the solar; the slave nods and gestures Dorian toward the exit. In the moment before he turns away, Dorian looks at Radonis — and there is nothing there. No anger, no disappointment, no love, nothing but a resignation which goes straight to Radonis’ heart. And then, Dorian has turned away, following the slave out of Radonis’ study.

 

The few hours pass, and though Radonis has plenty to occupy his mind, he finds his attention wandering. Only a few letters are written in the time before the slave clears his throat softly and murmurs, “Archon? Your escort is ready.”

Radonis huffs a short breath and nods. He rises, looks at the slave and asks, “The Ambassador?”

“Readying himself now, Archon.”

“I see,” Radonis says, then swallows and averts his eyes. “His demeanor?”

Silence from the slave, then a short intake of breath. “Tense, perhaps? I… could not say, Archon.”

Radonis nods again. “That will be all. And… thank you.”

He looks up in time to see the slave’s eyes widen. The man stares at him, shocked, then hastily nods and backs away quickly. 

 

Dorian is waiting for him in the lower chamber, a small, bright room, full of light. The lush smell of the gardens is strong, and Radonis smiles slightly as he catches sight of Dorian’s profile — bathed in sunlight, his eyes closed, his appearance calm. His heart swells and he opens his mouth slightly, releasing a sigh. At the sound, Dorian opens his eyes and turns.

The look on his face is veiled; though he smiles, it appears to be armour rather than a true expression. “Archon,” Dorian says softly, “I hope your work was not too onerous.”

“My thanks,” Radonis says, and gestures toward the awaiting carriage. “If you would care to enter?”

Dorian precedes him into the carriage, and they settle themselves. The doors are closed behind them; a moment of rattling and a few noises, then the carriage moves forward, the horses’ hooves noisy on the cobblestones. 

The quiet between them is strange. Radonis observes Dorian from the corner of his eye, and can tell that Dorian is doing the same. Eventually, he decides to break the detente — unfortunately, at exactly the same moment as Dorian. “You…” Radonis begins, just as Dorian says, “It’s not that…” They stop, looking at each other, then Radonis clears his throat and murmurs, “Please.”

Dorian looks a little irritated, then shrugs. “It’s not that I don’t think you have a point,” he mutters, “I just…” He shifts uncomfortably in his seat then rolls his eyes. “I miss having someone close to me. Someone who knows me. It seems… a little pathetic, I suppose, but along with being  _ stubborn _ ,” he raises an eyebrow briefly at Radonis, “I am also impatient. And just last night we spoke of the conflict of the ideal notions of love. Mine happens to be a melding not only of minds, but of bodies as well. I almost feel as if I cannot know your intentions, the capacity of your professed love, without that.”

 

Radonis sighs and nods. He feels miserable and tired even before the negotiations that they must go through today. “I suppose I understand that.”

Dorian raises his eyebrows. He appears to wait for a moment, then asks, “And..? What were you going to say?”

“That you surprised me,” Radonis says quietly. He laces his fingers together, the carriage shifting, rumbling over the streets of Minrathous. Hawkers cry their wares, he can hear the yells and laughter of the streets around them, smell the over-ripe vegetable stench of the marketplace as it permeates the carriage. “Honestly, you always do. I suppose I should be used to it by now.” He smiles a little, looking up at Dorian.

But instead of returning the expression, Dorian frowns, then cocks his head. “How so?” he asks.

Radonis’ mouth twists, and he finds himself frowning as well. Unconsciously, he reaches a hand to his beard and wraps the end of it around one finger. Eventually, he can think of no better way of phrasing it, and mutters, “That you want me at all. Truly, in every sense. We have an affinity, certainly — however…” He clears his throat and looks at Dorian, “You are still young, and beautiful. And…”

“And you think that I do not find you beautiful in return?” Dorian’s eyes grow wide; Radonis grits his teeth and nods curtly. For an instant, Dorian is seemingly struck mute. Then he exhales noisily and shakes his head. “And is that why you have pushed all this nonsense about the maiorum to the fore?”

“It is not nonsense, Dorian, there is…”

“Yes, yes, much to be said about the maiorum, fabric of society, and so on and so forth,” Dorian says quickly, revolving his hand at the wrist. He rolls his eyes. “I’ve heard this speech before, Radonis. But you haven’t answered my question — are you that nervous that I do not find you sufficiently attractive to actually want to bed you that you would essentially hide behind this veil of propriety?”

Radonis scoffs. “Do not be so quick to discard the maiorum. I understand your feelings toward it — of course I do. But it also offers protections to people who otherwise would have very few kindnesses shown to them. Take the case of the Laertii, for instance. Any child born of this class who is shown to have magical ability may be fostered to an Altus family; many are adopted by them…”

“Only if their power proves sufficiently strong,” Dorian says snidely. “Forgive me if I do not count stealing other people’s children as a  _ kindness _ .”

Radonis opens his mouth to argue, then scowls and shakes his head, looking away. Irritation boils in his chest; he swallows hard against it, but cannot quite rid himself of the sensation. “Dorian,” he begins, then sighs. 

“What?” Dorian asks. Just from his tone, Radonis is able to picture the look on his face — the arch of his eyebrow, the sardonic curl of his lip, the combative light in his eyes. He bristles, then turns, feeling irritated all over again when his gaze lights on exactly the expression he had predicted. He huffs a breath.

“Why are you doing this?” he asks, his voice softer than usual. “Is it because of what we must do today? Or am I being punished in some way?”

Dorian rolls his eyes again. “Please. I’m not scared of my parents, and I’m…” He swallows, then cocks his head and looks away from Radonis. “I’m not… punishing you,” he says, his voice a little less biting. “But I would like you to answer my question. What are you afraid of?”

_ The truth _ . The words occur to Radonis, entering him like a blade. Before he can curtail the thought, it grows —  _ I am afraid the truth will come out about what I am, and that I will not be able to bear it. I can bear it now; certainly many people know, but on the surface it hardly matters. What if it changes things? How will people see me? Will I become a monster in their eyes? _

He can feel fear sink its claws into his throat, his heart, and squeeze. And then he rallies, lifting his chin. “You are forgetting yourself, Ambassador.”

Dorian sneers. “Am I? It’s funny how you use my title to put me in my place. Is this how you are with all your lovers,  _ Archon _ ? Ardent, then cool; passionate and then distant, until they don’t know what they mean to you, or even if they mean anything at all?” He scoffs. “You  _ are _ afraid. You’re afraid of what other people think of you.”

 

There are shouts from outside, then the carriage rattles to a stop. In the half-light of the interior, Radonis can only stare at Dorian, who clenches his jaw and looks away. There is a brief rap on the door of the carriage, then it opens; light floods in. The slave at the door steps away, arranging the steps so that they might exit the carriage. But Radonis can only remain, stock still, until Dorian turns and asks viciously, “Well? Have you anything to say?”

Something in Radonis’ chest tightens, and he takes a deep breath. “We will speak of this upon our return,” he murmurs, then turns away, putting a hand to the side of the carriage to support himself as he stands, slightly hunched, ready to leave. Part of him hopes Dorian will call him back; he knows, however, that this is false hope. Not only are they expected in the villa beyond, but Dorian is too proud to act contrite merely for the sake of a softer time of it.  _ You both are _ , some voice in Radonis’ head mutters, but he shoos the thought away, and steps out into the dusty, humid air.

 

Before him, the Pavus residence rises, its hulking structure partly covered in ivy. The grounds, Radonis notes, are well-maintained, rigidly formal, the grass cut short, nicotiana and desert roses growing in white profusions from marble-edged beds. Several slaves, all attired in pale grey robes, line the entrance, five on each side. As Radonis and Dorian approach, they move forward, holding the prerequisite offerings: a soft, damp cloth for the visitors hands, stalks of rosemary to rub between them to refresh travellers, unleavened bread with salt, a cup of watered wine. Radonis observes each formality with the accordant gravitas; he can feel eyes upon him, and once he has taken a sip of wine and returned the cup to the waiting slave, he turns, and sees a stately-looking woman watching him closely. As soon as he does, she sweeps into an elegant bow, the movement incredibly graceful, almost as if she is dancing. Her hair is worn long, and though it is mostly grey, she retains a rather severe beauty. “Most High Archon. Tevinter in aeternum vite,” she tells him, her voice strong, “Welcome to our home. I regret that my husband could not greet you himself. I am Aquinea Thalrassian, mistress of this house.” 

Her eyes dart away from his, and Radonis turns his head to look at Dorian, who is smiling tensely. “My son,” Aquinea continues, then seems at a loss for what to say next.

Dorian inclines his head. “Mother,” he replies, “It is an honour to present my betrothed, the Most High Archon, Radonis, to this house. As I intimated in my correspondence to you, we come in fealty to the traditions which our state dictates.”

Aquinea’s eyebrow rises — the expression is eerily similar to Dorian’s own when he wishes to express incredulity, so much so that Radonis almost smiles. “Well,” Aquinea says, her tone curt, “If I might show you to the solar, Archon? My husband is being made comfortable there. I am sure Dorian has already informed you of his delicate health?”

“Certainly, Lady Aquinea,” Radonis responds. “It would be an honour to be received into your home.”

She allows herself a small smile at that as she turns away. Radonis looks at Dorian, who shrugs, and gestures him forward, into the house. The marble is worn away so that each step up has a very slight dip in the middle — this is, without a doubt, a house which has been in the family for a very long time. Arching his neck, Radonis observes decorative motifs from the early part of the Blessed Age, perhaps indicating that part of the house pre-dates the Exalted March which the false Chantry called against the Qunari.  _ Much good it did them _ , Radonis thinks to himself, then folds his hands in front of himself and brings his eyes back to their hostess.

 

The walk through the vaulted rooms of the house seems to take an age. Each room is beautifully decorated, though the difference between this house and Dorian’s own villa are notable. Here, everything is lush, opulent, almost overblown with decoration — from the deep velvet of the curtains to the abundant frescoes on the ceilings, patterns inlaid into the floors in various colour of marble and stone and marvellous tapestries depicting legendary heroes of Tevinter history. In spite of this, the house feels almost abandoned. This feeling of repressive loneliness is only compounded when they finally enter the solar, a medium-sized room with an impressive mount of a Varghest high up on the wall, surrounded by the heads of lesser creatures. An elderly man sits in a high-backed chair, his wrinkled hands folded neatly together over the rug over his legs. As they enter, he starts slightly, turning away from whatever he had been contemplating beyond the windows, and smiles, seeming a little confused. “Dorian?” he asks, “Where have you been?”

Dorian takes a deep breath. Before he can respond, however, Aquinea moves quickly to the man’s side. “Husband,” she says, over-loudly, in Radonis’ opinion, “The Most High Archon is here to discuss… Dorian’s  _ situation _ .”

“Ah,” the man says quietly, and drops his gaze. In the quiet which follows, Radonis hears Dorian exhale a long, shaky breath. The man in the chair nods, then looks out of the windows again; in profile, Radonis sees the sweep of Dorian’s own nose, the shape of his hairline, the same expression of deep sadness. His lip curls slightly as he nods to Halward Pavus and clears his throat softly.

“Lord Pavus, Lady Aquinea.” Radonis keeps his voice low, and glances at Dorian briefly before asking, “May we be seated?”

“Oh, yes, yes, of course,” Aquinea says, gesturing to several plush chairs and a chaise longue, all upholstered in a deep blue-black. She turns, clicking her fingers in an irritated fashion at a nearby slave, who nods. Clearly flustered, Aquinea gestures once more to the group of chairs and they make themselves comfortable.

There is a stiff silence as the slave offers refreshments. Radonis accepts his goblet of wine, takes a small sip and clears his throat again. “This is not a  _ situation _ which pertains to Dorian only,” he begins. “We have spoken of this at length between ourselves — we are well aware of the position which this puts you in, the implications it has for the nation. Tell me of your concerns. Do you object to our match?”

Aquinea and Halward glance at one another; Aquinea purses her lips and shakes her head. “Most High Archon,” she begins, “My husband and I… may we address you frankly?”

“Of course,” Radonis murmurs. 

Aquinea sighs. “My husband and I feel as if Dorian may have… overstated his position somewhat. He has been in affinitas before, you see, an arrangement brokered between the Herethinos family and ourselves. We…”

Radonis can almost feel Dorian’s anger radiating from his body; he waves his hand to call Aquinea to silence. He turns slightly, regarding Halward, and inclines his head. “I recall all of this. I also recollect that you felt it necessary to step down from the consiliare because of certain rumours regarding Dorian; sporting in the Gilded Quarter, the various escapades at the Abraxis manse and other rather sordid affairs. Is it necessary that the Archon’s consort must have lived in a tower their whole life prior to conubium? We all have a past, myself included. Are your objections formulated on the notion that you feel Dorian is a subpar match for me?”

 

Halward inhales sharply and scowls, his mouth opening as if he will speak. Before he does, however, Aquinea clears her throat. “Perhaps we might discuss this without Dorian?”

“How  _ dare _ …” Dorian begins, and Radonis looks at him swiftly. This is enough to bring Dorian up short — enough time for Radonis to lift his chin and say quietly, “Certainly not. As I have intimated, this is a situation in which we are both implicated; our futures are entwined at this point.”

Aquinea swallows and glares briefly at Dorian, then folds her hands in her lap and inclines her head to Radonis. “Very well,” she says politely, the sudden frost in her manner making her anger clear. “How do you propose to deal with succession? As you are no doubt aware, Most  _ High _ Archon, Dorian is an only child; my Lord’s name dies with him. There are few enough Altii in which the old magical lines run pure, unsullied with lesser magic — if we do not breed like to like, then we are bound to suffer the consequences.”

“And what consequences might these be, Mother?” Finally, it would seem, Dorian has had enough. Radonis looks at him again, but Dorian is either wilfully ignoring him or he is so furious there exists only himself and his mother in the room. The silence is overwhelming, until, quite suddenly, Halward coughs.

“Husband?” Immediately, Aquinea is on her feet, moving toward Halward, who holds up one hand; Aquinea stalls half-way to him. Radonis notes the slight shake in his fingers, the labour of his breathing, and a small frown flits over his features. Halward struggles with his breathing for a moment longer, coughs weakly again, then sighs and drops his hand.

For a short while, it seems as if he will speak. Those in the room wait, until eventually Aquinea sighs crossly. “Husband,” she says sharply, “Are you quite well?”

Halward glances at her, then shrugs and looks away, once again out of the window. Radonis looks at Dorian — he is transfixed, a strange expression on his face. Chagrin, irritation, sadness; they are all there in his features at this moment. Radonis wants to reach out, take Dorian’s hand, somehow provide him comfort. And yet he makes no move. 

 

“Succession,” Halward croaks suddenly, and Radonis looks at him again. Halward continues to stare out of the window as he continues, “There are ways around that… that issue. Blood… blood tie… it is not… vital.” He gasps a breath, then turns, looking past Radonis, directly at Dorian. “Trust. That… is what… matters.”

This last is barely audible. Those assembled wait for Halward to continue, but it would appear he has said his piece. Aquinea purses her lips and narrows her eyes at her husband, then her lips thin in a line of disapproval.

“Yes.  _ Trust _ .” Rolling her eyes, she turns slightly in her seat, effectively cutting Halward out of the conversation with her body language. Radonis’ heartbeat quickens slightly, sadness and irritation blossoming within him at this treatment of a man who was once an ally. From the periphery of his vision, he sees Dorian shift uncomfortably. “All the laws state,” Aquinea continues, “that only blood relatives may succeed property and any related titles, names and sundries. What will you do, Archon? Change our most ancient laws?”

Radonis lets the silence hang for a moment, then murmurs, “Yes. If I must.”

Aquinea inhales sharply, her eyes becoming round for a moment in shock. “You…” she begins, then pulls herself up short. For a while, she only stares at them, then she scoffs.

“You wouldn’t dare,” she tells him coldly. Then her gaze shifts and she looks at Dorian — studies him. The tension in the room changes; heat seems to rise to Radonis’ face, and then suddenly he feels a chill run all over his body. Involuntarily, he shivers. The Fade seems to ululate around them, then Aquinea’s gaze moves to Radonis once more, and she smirks. “I cannot believe that even Dorian is as foolhardy to saddle himself with this… this  _ quest _ , willingly. You know, he always was a difficult boy — so bright, but so  _ stubborn.  _ It was always such a chore to try and get him to see that just keeping the status quo was so much more in his interest… and I’m afraid the lessons that his father and I tried to impart upon him just… never really took.” Halward makes a small, unhappy noise at that; everyone in the room looks at him, but when it becomes clear that he will not speak, Aquinea waves her hand and smiles again. “So, Most High Archon. I suppose I must congratulate you for one thing — the thrall is undetectable.”

 

Dorian’s intake of breath is audible; before Radonis has time to say anything, Dorian is on his feet. His jaw works once, hands curling into fists at his sides, then he lowers his chin and smiles. It is the ugliest expression Radonis has ever seen — full of terrifying power and horrifying sadness. “Mother,” Dorian says slowly, his voice low. “We came here in good faith, prepared to assure you as to the purity of our intent toward each other. And yet since we stepped through the door, you have been nothing short of appalling in your behaviour; disrespectful to the Archon and to myself. So I suppose I should hardly be surprised that you require a lesson in reality as well.”

The silence in the room is palpable. Radonis feels as if all the air in his lungs is stopped up; he hardly wants to breathe. Dorian is… incredibly angry, yes, but moreover, incredibly  _ controlled _ . He watches Aquinea’s face as Dorian straightens, sees the same stubbornness which she had accused Dorian himself of in the frown which flits across her features, in the set of her mouth and shoulders.  _ She hates him _ , he realises,  _ hates him for… what? It’s not whom he loves; perhaps she hates him for choosing his own path. _

“The status quo is in  _ nobodies _ interest,” Dorian continues. “You are living in the past — that time in history where the Altii ruled and Tevinter flourished… it’s over. Tevinter is  _ dying _ , because she will not change. She is too rigid.” He pauses, bites his lip and takes two steps toward her as he says, “When a nation tries to bend and cannot, there is only one outcome.” Aquinea stares up at her son as he leans down slightly to hiss, “Mother, that nation  _ breaks _ .”

 

Silence still reigns in the room. Slowly, Dorian straightens. “I seek to wed the Most High Archon. I love him, as he loves me. Together, we might accomplish much; and yet you  _ congratulate _ him on his undetectable blood magic and bleat about the supposed greatness of times past.” Dorian’s voice is low, and though Radonis cannot see his face, he can well imagine the expression upon it. He seems to come back to his body, wonders why his hands hurt so much and looks down to find he has clasped the fingers so tightly together that each knuckle is white. Gradually, he tries to relax them, still listening carefully to Dorian’s voice.

“We came here in good faith. And though I was reluctant, Maker knows, and I questioned your motives, the Archon insisted. But now, I regret I must insist that we close this discussion — say whatever it is that you wish to say, because I will not step foot in your house again.”

 

Aquinea’s expression shifts. For a moment, it is almost a sneer, then she glances at Radonis directly and smiles. “You see how he addresses his mother, Archon. I…”

“Enough, Lady Aquinea.” Radonis cuts her off with a whispered command. Her smile falters, then evaporates entirely. “I agree with Dorian — I must also insist that we bring these negotiations to a close. You have made your position clear; however, as has been noted, both parties are of age, and we can obtain other witnesses. However, in accordance with custom, I have prepared my first offer.” He gestures over his shoulder, and a slave of their entourage hurries forward with the scroll, “I am certain you will find it more than acceptable.”

While he has been speaking, the slave has given the scroll to a slave of the Pavus house — they bow to each other, then the slave presents the scroll to his mistress. Aquinea accepts it, her expression stony. Radonis looks at Dorian, just in time to see him glance at his father briefly and away again. The look is so brief that Radonis cannot begin to interpret the expression upon his face. So instead, he lifts his chin and looks once more at Aquinea. “There will be no need for us to meet again; if you have amendments to make to the conditions of the bonds of affinitas, make note of them and send them by the first day of Ferventus. After this, we will consider the affinitas accepted, and will begin the transition of the properties mentioned.” Radonis pauses briefly, then inclines his head. “Thank you for your hospitality, Lady Aquinea. I am pleased to make your acquaintance, and renew my acquaintance with your husband.” He rises, keeping his expression neutral, and bows to them. “Perhaps we might show ourselves out.”

 

“Wait,” Halward rasps suddenly. “Dorian, please.”

Aquinea scoffs. “Husband, please don’t strain yourself. Dorian has made his decision. Let him now deal with the consequences.”

“A...Archon,” Halward says, his voice laboured and soft. “I… I really must…”

“It’s too late,” Dorian tells him fiercely. “You did her bidding before, at least as I understand it. There’s no reason to believe that you would disagree with her now, Father.”

“I…” Halward struggles, then tries to draw breath. He wheezes an exhale, his expression panicked, then resumes coughing, far louder and more racking than before. The effect is instant -- Aquinea rises and goes immediately to his side, brushing Dorian slightly as she moves; but when Dorian begins to approach as well, she waves him back, hissing, “You’ve done quite enough. Go now.” 

Halward continues to wheeze for a moment longer, his breathing whistling in short, sharp pants. He raises a fluttering hand once more, to whom, Radonis is uncertain, but Aquinea seems to take the cue. “Marcus!” Aquinea says, and the slave once more hurries forward, this time with a vial of some amber liquid in his hand. He steps in front of Halward, obscuring Radonis’ view of the situation; though from the motions of his body, it would seem that the slave is administering whatever the vial contains to Halward. A tense moment, a pregnant pause — and then Radonis turns to Dorian to tell him that they should go. However, the words die in his throat.

 

Dorian is completely implacable. His hands are relaxed now, a small smile in the corner of his mouth, and in that moment Radonis half-expects him to cock his head curiously as he watches his parents, as he listens to the whooping breaths his father takes and the hysteria of his mother. Radonis inhales sharply, frowning in confusion. Surely, even after such a display, Dorian would not be so callous as this? Radonis feels his mouth open slightly, but then he quickly remembers himself and straightens his shoulders. The gesture is enough to recall Dorian’s attention to him — their gazes meet, Dorian gives a small nod, and turns, walking from the room. Radonis follows.

 

They sit in pensive silence, all the way back to the Imperial Palace. Radonis listens to every sigh, studies Dorian as much as he dares from the corner of his eye. Either Dorian truly is as cold as he seems now, or he is shutting Radonis out?  _ And who would blame him for that? _ Radonis considers,  _ It is an ugly thing, to see this side of any family. _

Perhaps they should have approached it all differently — perhaps Radonis had indeed been wrong to make the announcement in such a cavalier fashion. Has he let his emotions run away with his good sense? Some part of him scorns the idea; however, a greater part of him seems to give credence to the notion. 

Eventually, the carriage rattles to a halt, and the door is swung open. Immediately, Dorian alights; he barely slows his stride away from the vehicle as Radonis follows him, only pausing to half-turn when Radonis calls his name.

Radonis walks to him, puts a hand on his elbow. Dorian stiffens slightly, glances at the nearby slaves and mutters, “Don’t. Not now.”

“I see,” Radonis says, and drops his hand. “My apologies. Do you wish…”

“No,” Dorian tells him sharply, and clenches his jaw. “I… I need some time, Archon. Can you give me that?”

“Of course,” Radonis murmurs. Dorian nods once, without looking at him, then turns, walking through the yard, waving off the slave who approaches him. Radonis can only watch.


End file.
